A Queen of Her Own
by janemac24
Summary: It's the spring of 1944. Emma Swan has lost her husband in the war and is trying to raise a son on her meager wages from the munitions factory, when a turn of good fortune lands her in the All-American Girls Professional Baseball League. Things are going well until she starts to develop strange feelings for one of the opposing players. Swan Queen AU.
1. A Real Ballplayer

_Based on prompt: SQ - Historical (WWII) - Rivals. "With America's entry into World War II, several major league baseball executives started a new professional league with women players in order to maintain baseball in the public eye while the majority of able men were away (from Wikipedia)" Regina and Emma are players in rival teams and Henry, Emma's traitor son, is the self-proclaimed #1 Evil Queen fan._

**Notes**: As you can see, I got a little carried away with this prompt. The story will likely end up with five to six chapters. Please be warned – although SQ is obviously endgame, other (past) pairings will be frequently mentioned, particularly Emma/Neal and Regina/Daniel.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Once Upon a Time or its characters. The All-American Girls Professional Baseball League is (was) real, but the teams and players in this story are fictionalized, and any resemblance to actual people/events - apart from well-known historical ones - is unintentional. I have done my best to research the sport and the time period, but I am not perfect, and I humbly apologize for any errors or inaccuracies.

* * *

**Chapter 1: A Real Ballplayer**

_Batter up! Hear that call!_  
_The time has come for one and all  
To play ball._

_We are the members of the All-American League  
We come from cities near and far  
We've got Canadians, Irishmen and Swedes,  
We're all for one, we're one for all  
We're all Americans!_

_Each girl stands, her head so proudly high,  
Her motto 'Do or Die'  
She's not the one to use or need an alibi._

_Our chaperones are not too soft,  
They're not too tough,  
Our managers are on the ball.  
We've got a president who really knows his stuff,  
We're all for one, we're one for all,  
We're All-Americans!_

Henry collapses onto the sofa, gasping for breath, immediately after belting out the last note. Emma chuckles as she follows him into their small apartment, stopping to lean heavily against the door, even after she hears it click shut behind her. She'd worked both the night and morning shift at the factory before the weekly pick-up ball game in the Common, which had been slightly more intense than usual with so many recruits for the All-American Girls League in town. Henry had been over the moon at the announcement that Boston would soon be getting its own professional team, the Belles, at the start of the 1944 season.

"It's gonna be a gas, Ma," he'd exclaimed the entire walk home. "Maybe I'll get to see my first game at Fenway! Ma, you have to take me if the Chickadees come to Boston! I'll get to see the Evil Queen in person – maybe she'll even sign my ball!"

They don't have the money for that sort of thing, but she doesn't have the heart to tell him just yet. The Maine Chickadees – or rather, their star pitcher Regina Mills – have been the main thing getting Henry through the war and the loss of his father with his spirit intact. "Kind of a dumb name, though, isn't it?" she wonders aloud.

"What? The Chickadees or the Evil Queen?"

Emma shrugs. "Both, maybe."

"Chickadees are the Maine state bird," he informs her snootily. "We learned it at school. Did you know that Regina was born in Maine? She lived there her whole life – just two hours away from us! Her dad is from Puerto Rico, though! Did you know that? They almost didn't let her play because of that, but in the end they did. He taught her how to play baseball, and he had the same name as me! Well, not really, because he just changed it to Henry when he came to America. But sort of! And he played in the Negro Leagues here but just for one year, and then he retired! How nuts is that? They said he could have been the best player, but his wife made him quit! What a jerk! Why would he even marry someone like that? But his batting average was –"

"Yes, I read the same interview that you did," Emma interrupts before he can _truly_ get going. "And I know all of her father's stats – I used to have his card, actually."

That stops Henry dead in his tracks. "You _used to_?" he demands.

Emma looks down sheepishly. "I sold all of my baseball cards to help pay the rent and piece together some savings after I got the telegram about your dad," she admits. "It was over a year ago – before you got into baseball – and I didn't realize..."

"It's fine," he says quickly. He's matured a lot in the two years since Neal went away, and for that she's grateful. "It's probably more important to have a home than a bunch of crummy old cards."

"I'm glad you feel that way."

"Anyway, I think they call her the Evil Queen because she has a scary game-face and eats apples for good luck," Henry continues, babbling on as if there had never been an interruption. "I don't think she's really _evil_, though. She seems nice in all of her interviews."

"They do send all the players to charm school," Emma points out. Henry smirks.

"Well, anyway, who cares if she's nice or not? She's an ace pitcher. Did you know that she pitched _nine_ no-hitters last year? Nick at school says he heard on the radio that she's the best girl pitcher in the entire world! She even throws overhand like the boys – not underhand like in softball. Ava thinks that when the war ends and they restart boys' baseball, they'll ask her to play in the Majors! Wouldn't that be bonkers? What if she played for the Red Sox? She could be our neighbor!"

It would be highly unlikely for any Red Sox players to move into their solidly working class housing project, but Henry's still a bit too young to understand that. "That would be very bonkers," she agrees. "I don't know how I'd feel about living next door to an Evil Queen, though. I'd be nervous if she came over to borrow a cup of sugar – who knows what kind of pies she'd be making?"

"Good thing we're not Snow White," laughs Henry. "But I think I'm going to turn into Grumpy if we don't eat supper soon."

"We wouldn't want that." Shaking her head vigorously – Henry without regular meals is truly a demon – Emma opens the cupboard in search of something easy. "Sandwiches?" she suggests. "I think President Roosevelt is doing a fireside chat tonight. We wouldn't want to miss it."

"Okay," he says agreeably. "Peanut butter or Spam?"

"Peanut butter is faster." With expert dexterity, Emma whips up two sandwiches in almost record time. She spreads the peanut butter a little thinner on her own: Henry's growing quickly and needs all the protein he can get, but whatever bureaucrat is in charge of allocating rations doesn't seem to realize that. She checks the clock on the wall and grins. They have five minutes to eat before the radio program starts.

Henry has finished wolfing down his sandwich and Emma is about halfway through hers when they hear a knock at the door. "Are we expecting someone?" Henry asks, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

"Not that I know of," Emma replies with a shrug. For the first year that Neal was away, she lived in constant fear of knocks at the door, especially at odd hours. But once the telegram had come, she'd lost any reason to fear – as long as she can see with her own eyes that Henry's safe, that is. Setting her sandwich on the table, she quickly straightens her hair and turns to answer the door, but Henry is already peeking through the keyhole.

"It's Rupert Gold, Ma!" he stage-whispers, perhaps not as quietly as he'd intended.

Emma wrinkles her nose. "The Magic Popcorn guy?"

"Ma! He's the owner of the Chickadees! He's the one who's starting the Boston team, too! I can't believe you didn't know that!"

"What is the owner of the Maine Chickadees doing at our apartment?" she muses. "Did you enter a raffle to meet the Evil Queen or something?"

"Ma, answer the door!" Henry hisses, eyes wide and urgent. "He was at your game today! Maybe he –"

"Shh!" she commands, shooing him out of the way before she opens the door. "Good evening, Mr. Gold," she says nervously, beckoning him to enter.

"Miss Swan," the elderly man says, nodding his approval as he takes in her physique. "I see that you already know who I am."

"Well, my son just informed me," she says with an uneasy chuckle. Noting his limp and cane, she asks, "Would you like to sit down?"

He looks almost offended by the offer. "No, thank you. I'm hoping this will be a fairly quick conversation. My scout and I attended your baseball game today. You're quite a slugger."

What is she supposed to say to that? "Thank you, sir."

"As you've undoubtedly heard, the All-American Girls League is hoping to start a new team here in Boston. We're holding try-outs three days from now. I'd be most interested to see you there."

She's not sure whether the clunking sound she hears in her head is Henry's jaw hitting the floor or her own. Play professional baseball? That's –

"Ma, you have to do it!" Henry exclaims.

"I – I – Sir, you see, I work in the munitions factory. It's a full-time –"

"The starting salary for players is around seventy dollars a week," he says breezily.

_Seventy dollars?_ That's more than twice what she makes at the factory, even with overtime. They could move out of this rat-infested building, buy Henry new shoes and –

Henry.

"Sir, I – I have a son. I couldn't just go traveling all over the country playing baseball when I need to be looking after him. He's only ten years old!"

"I can take care of myself," Henry cuts in, arms crossed. "Or you could take me to the games."

Gold smirks. "You're hardly the first woman to find herself in this predicament," he informs her. "Arrangements have been made in the past, and they could be made again. If you end up making the team, that is."

"I don't know," she says, still hesitant. It would be a huge change. Their situation right now isn't great, but it's predictable. If she loses her job – if she and Henry can't eat, or they have to live out on the streets... Winter always comes sooner than they expect, with heating bills and –

"Maaaaa," Henry whines, "you have to _at least_ go to the try-out."

"Your boy has a point, Miss Swan," Gold wheedles. "You've got nothing to lose. Try-outs are on Sunday at the South End Grounds. If you can't take the day off work -"

"No, I don't work on Sundays." In a split second, she makes her decision. Just the thought of the look on Henry's face if she makes the team is enough to dispel all of her fears. "I'll be at the try-out."

"Excellent. I hope you and your boy have a lovely evening." With that, Gold takes his leave.

Henry waits until the popcorn tycoon is out the door before letting out the loudest whoop Emma has ever heard. "You're going to scare the neighbors!" she protests.

He dives into her arms, beaming, and exclaims, "Ma, you're going to be a real ballplayer!"

* * *

Henry is still talking about baseball three hours later when Emma tucks him into bed. "I can come watch you in the try-out, right?" he asks for about the fiftieth time.

"Of course," Emma promises. "But it's just practice. Why do you want to watch?"

He blushes and casts a furtive glance at the picture on his wall, an action-shot of Regina Mills pitching that he'd cut from an old copy of the Boston Globe, and Emma instantly understands. "The Evil Queen will be there, won't she?"

"All of the players from last season have to try out again," he grumbles. "I don't know why. It's not like anyone is going to be better than her."

Emma shrugs. "Maybe they're going to change up the teams?" she suggests. "I wouldn't worry too much about your beloved Queen, though. I don't think she's going anywhere."

"I know," says Henry, sighing deeply as he nestles his face more deeply into his pillow. "Do you think the try-out will be really busy, or will she have time to sign my ball?"

"I don't know, kid."

He's silent for a moment before murmuring, so softly she almost doesn't hear it. "I wish you hadn't sold the Henry Mills card. I would have asked her to sign that. I think she would have liked it."

"Yeah, she probably would have," Emma agrees. "But we have to eat, you know?"

"I know. It just would have been a nice thing. Do you think she misses her dad?"

Emma shrugs. "Probably." She'd heard of Henry Mills's death a few years ago, but hadn't thought much of it at the time, with America entering the war and everything else going on. "Probably just like you miss yours."

Nodding solemnly, Henry looks back up at the picture. "Maybe that's why she plays baseball – to remember him."

"Maybe."

"I really wish you hadn't sold that card," he says again.

"Yeah, me too." She really should have saved that one in particular for him, but she hadn't had the time or energy to consider it in her quest to make sure he stayed fed. "But I can tell you a great story to make up for it."

That gets his attention. "What story?"

"Did you know your father and I actually named you after Henry Mills?"

"No!" he exclaims, sitting straight up in bed. "How come you never told me?"

Emma gives him a small smile. "It's actually a little embarrassing," she admits, "but we had the hardest time thinking of a name for you. Then, the morning you were born, your father had been listening to the radio in the waiting room – I don't even remember what game it was, but the Brooklyn Eagles were playing – and he said the second he heard your first cry, Henry Mills scored the winning run. And we both thought Henry was a pretty sharp name. Wouldn't you agree?"

Henry grins and says, "I like that story. I can't believe you didn't tell it to me before."

"Well, you never asked about your name, and your fascination with baseball is kind of a recent thing. Now," she says, checking the clock on his wall, "does that qualify as your bedtime story, or do you need another one?"

"That one was pretty good," he allows. "Anyway, you have to leave for work in three hours, so you should probably get some sleep."

"Yeah, I probably should," Emma reluctantly agrees. "I have to rest up for my big try-out, right?"

Henry makes a noise that could best be described as a squeal and hugs his pillow to his chest. "You're going to be a ballplayer!" he says again, bouncing up and down in his bed. "I can't wait to tell Nick and Ava!"

"I haven't even made the team yet!" Emma protests, but she's smiling, too. It's been a while since either of them have had something to get excited about. And seventy dollars a week...

She has a hard time falling asleep that night, but when her alarm clock sounds three hours later, she's still full of energy even with so little rest.

_She's going to be a real ballplayer._

Even without the salary increase, it's a far more enticing prospect than making rivets for the rest of her life.

* * *

Sunday dawns bright and early for Emma, who can't seem to stop her hands from fidgeting as she enters the ballpark, Henry at her heels. It's a much more impressive venue than any she's played at – or even _seen_ – before, filled with more female ballplayers than she knew existed. At first glance, it seems like utter chaos: players warming up and tossing balls back and forth with little organization, but she quickly gets used to it.

"Why don't you go sit on those bleachers over there?" she suggests, but her slack-jawed son clearly has other matters on his mind. She follows his gaze over to the far end of the field, where a solitary woman is stretching, her face a picture of intensity.

"Ma, it's _her_," he whispers, eyes wide and awestruck. "Can I –"

"After," Emma whispers back. "I don't think she'd like to be disturbed right now." She thinks she finally understands how the "Evil Queen" moniker came about – that woman is _terrifying_. The thought those eyes staring her down from the pitcher's mound...

No, she can't think like that. This is just a game, an opportunity to give her son his best chance. It's not a matter of life and death.

"It looks like there's some other kids sitting over there," she tells him, pointing again at a spot on the bleachers overlooking first base. "I'll catch up with you after this is finished?"

Henry nods his assent and trots over to the group of spectators with Emma watching worriedly. Much like his mother, he's never been the most social – he's got a couple of friends at school, but he's been keeping to himself more and more since his father died. Still, these kids seem pretty friendly (they're obviously all interested in baseball), and she's relieved to see that he's actually talking to them. Then he sees him pointing to her and another boy pointing out someone who's probably his mother or much-older sister, given the resemblance, and she heaves a sigh of relief and turns back to the field.

"Hey, you need a warm-up buddy?" someone calls from behind her. Emma turns to face a tall brunette wearing red lipstick and impossibly short shorts. "Ruby Lucas," she says with a smile, holding her hand out to shake. "Want to toss around with me?"

During their warm-up together, Emma learns that Ruby is twenty-one and from a small town in Maine, where she'd been working at a diner with her grandmother until she'd run away to "see the world and make something of her life."

"If I don't make the league, I don't know what I'm going to do," Ruby confesses. "I can't go back home – Granny will kill me."

As far as Emma can tell, Ruby's one of the better players who'd shown up – and there are over a hundred of them. She's apparently from the same town as Regina Mills, though Ruby claims they don't know each other very well.

"She's a few years older," Ruby reports. "She'd left town by the time I started high school and didn't come back until her father died. She got engaged to someone she met in the city, I think, but they never married because her mother didn't approve. And then he got called up for the war, so...anyway, we shouldn't gossip."

"We shouldn't," Emma concurs. "My son is over the moon for that woman, though. I think he's her biggest fan."

"First crush?" Ruby teases, and Emma shudders.

"I hope not!" she exclaims, "He's only ten."

Ruby smirks and tosses a hard, fast one at Emma, which she barely catches thanks to that horrific distraction. "Sometimes boys start young," the younger woman cautions with a wolfish grin. Emma shakes her head and lobs the ball back as hard as she can, hoping to catch Ruby off-guard. She doesn't.

The try-out goes well, at least as far as Emma can tell. She's been playing baseball and softball since she'd learned it at her second orphanage, at age six, and she'd like to think she's a decent player. This try-out has only confirmed that. Save for one or two minor errors, she's playing some of the best ball she's ever played - with some of the most skilled female players in the country, and she's holding her own against them. She hears Henry and the other kids cheering from the sidelines when she hits a homer against one of the pitchers from Connecticut, and she starts to feel like she might be able to do this.

Her newfound confidence almost instantly dissipates, however, when she finds herself batting against none other than Regina Mills. If she'd thought the Evil Queen was intense during the warm-up, it's nothing compared to the ferocity in her gaze from the pitcher's mound. Her dark eyes seem to bore into Emma's very soul, sizing up her weaknesses before she almost carelessly fires off the fastest pitch Emma has ever seen. It whizzes past her chest before she even has time to react, let alone aim.

As does the next one.

And the next one.

"It's okay, Ma," Henry consoles her during a water break. "She struck everyone out."

The other kids, all wide-eyed, surround him, nodding vigorously. "At least you didn't cry," one girl solemnly tells her. "My Papa said that one time, a girl from one of the Chicago teams cried when she had to bat against the Evil Queen."

"That's just silly!" Henry scoffs. "They should have felt lucky they got to see her at all. I know I would."

His new gaggle of friends all voice their agreement, and Emma chuckles. "I'll keep that in mind," she says. "Now, wish me luck. I have to play shortstop."

The rest of the try-out seems to go fairly well, and Emma is pleasantly surprised but not shocked when she sees her name on the Boston Belles's roster at the end of the afternoon. Regina Mills, unsurprisingly, is back on the Chickadees for another season. Ruby's name is just above Emma's, along with a bunch of other women she hasn't met yet. She hopes they'll be decent people – she's always been a bit of a loner, but she'll have to learn to get along with her teammates if they'll be traveling across the country together.

She's always wanted to travel. In her youth, she'd dreamed of living a vagabond's life, moving from city to city with only a few dollars and the clothes on her back. Maybe with Neal, maybe without him – she wasn't picky. Then, of course, she and Neal had done what they did best and made bad decisions, and then Henry had come along and traveling became out of the question. Not that she regrets a moment with her son, of course, but being a wife and mother had never been in the cards for her.

Now, she can have everything at once: motherhood and adventure and financial stability. She's not quite sure what to make of it.

"You excited?" Ruby asks on the way out. She's practically vibrating with glee, though there's a certain wistfulness in her gaze as she stares a little too long at a payphone on the sidewalk, and Emma wonders if she's thinking about her Granny.

"I don't know if it's fully sunk in yet," Emma murmurs. Practices start in a week. She'll give her notice at the factory on Monday, and then Henry –

Where is Henry? He was just right behind her.

As though reading her thoughts, Ruby points out, "I think your kid is talking to the Evil Queen over there."

And there he is. He'd gotten shy at first and said he wasn't going to approach her, but he'd evidently changed his mind. There's no trace of self-consciousness now: he's grinning hugely and is plainly babbling on and on, but for her part, Mills appears to be interested in whatever he's saying. She's crouched down to his level and is staring attentively at him like his words are the only thing that's important to her.

_She's even intense when she's being friendly_, Emma thinks.

"I'll go see if I can't hurry them along," she mutters, jogging on tired legs to the first base line. Henry's eyes light up when he sees her approach.

"That's my Ma!" he exclaims. "She's going to be on the Boston team. You struck her out today."

"Great introduction," Emma says sarcastically, playfully ruffling his hair before holding out her hand to the Evil Queen. "Hi, I'm Emma Swan," she says, caught off-guard when the full force of Regina's piercing brown eyes is directed at her. How had Henry kept his cool?

"Regina. Your son was just telling me the story of his name."

Emma groans internally, but she forces a smile for Henry's sake. While she assumes that Regina will appreciate the sentiment, that story doesn't exactly paint her in the best light.

Not that she cares. She doesn't care what Regina Mills thinks of her – does she? She doesn't even know the woman.

"Your father was some ballplayer," she says, hoping that's the appropriate thing to say.

Regina seems to appreciate it, giving her a small smile as she replies, "He was. I'm glad to see he still has some fans."

There's an uncomfortable silence as the three of them stare at each other, and Emma wonders if she was supposed to make some sort of comment in return, but then Regina finally says, "Well, I have to catch a train back to Maine, and I'm sure you two have somewhere to be, so should I start signing that ball, or..."

"Right!" Henry exclaims, quickly pulling it out of his knapsack. "I'm going to put it on the bookshelf in my room, next to the picture of Ted Williams."

Regina raises her eyebrows and remarks, "I'll be in good company."

"Ted Williams is ace, but I've never met him," Henry says absentmindedly, bouncing up and down as he watches her sign his prized baseball. "You're the first real athlete I've ever met!"

"I don't know about that," Regina replies, barely concealing a sly smile. "Your mother is a real athlete now, too."

"I know, but –"

"Careful," Emma cautions. "I was going to buy you a celebratory dinner tonight, but if you say the wrong thing, I might reconsider."

"Steaks?" he asks hopefully.

"Maybe, if you finish all of your chores by six."

Henry's eyes widen. "By six?" he hollers. "I gotta go! Bye, Regina!"

"Henry, wait!" When the Evil Queen calls after him, Henry stops dead in his tracks, smiling radiantly, and Emma is surprised to see that _she_ is the one who suddenly looks shy. "There's, um... there's something I'd like to send you – if... if it's okay with your mother, that is. I would, um... need your address, if that's..."

"Sure!" he says brightly, putting her out of her misery. "It's okay – right, Ma?"

"Uh...yeah, of course. Definitely," Emma replies, and Henry immediately pulls a small scrap from one of his notebooks and scrawls their house number on it. Paper is expensive these days, but apparently the Evil Queen is worth sacrificing a few lines of his latest story.

"We could be pen pals!"

Regina smiles and says, "Yes, we could," before taking her leave. Henry spends their walk home sprinting in circles around Emma, downright giddy about the day's events.

"Ma, she signed my ball!" he squeals.

"Yes, she did."

"And she told me to call her Regina! And she's going to write to me! I can't even believe it! And I'm going to get to see her in person _all the time_ now. Since Maine is so close, you'll probably have to play the Chickadees a lot, and then she'll be there and... oh."

"Oh? What's oh?"

He shuffles to a stop, staring at his feet. "Just...your team will probably lose a lot, since she'll be striking you out."

"I'm sure we'll manage," Emma reassures him. "Maybe the relief pitcher will be terrible." Henry cackles, and Emma suddenly shouts, "I'll race you home." In spite of her exhaustion, she's feeling surprisingly light on her feet.

Maybe she's a little bit giddy, too.


	2. Batter Out

**Chapter 2: Batter Out**

"Hello, everyone! Welcome to the Boston Belles and the All-American Girls Professional Baseball League. My name is David Nolan, and I'll be your manager. You can call me David. As some of you may know, I played with the Red Sox for two seasons before an elbow injury forced me to retire early. This is my first coaching position, so I'm open to any input you may have."

"Asking for input? That man is either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid," Ruby whispers, and Emma nods worriedly as David flashes everyone a friendly smile that doesn't seem particularly managerial. She thinks she hears a few of the girls behind her let out irritatingly dreamy sighs.

"Stupid is more likely," another player chimes in – a round-faced woman named Mary Margaret who's a dead ringer for Walt Disney's Snow White (though she's a bit more cheeky than demure, and packs a powerful and devastatingly accurate swing). "Kind of a dreamboat, but since when is charm a qualification for coaching?"

"He was an ace fielder back when he played," hisses a round-faced blonde woman who Emma thinks is named Ashley. "I think he'll have a lot to teach us."

Mary Margaret shrugs, and David turns to their little group and asks, "Any questions?"

Caught, the players shake their heads, but David seems less irritated than he does confused.

"Now, if that's settled, your uniforms are finished. You'll need to try them on and make sure the names and numbers and sizes are all correct, and then you'll show me what you can do." He opens a large box and starts reading off names as he pulls out the uniforms and Emma exchanges a surprised glance with Mary Margaret.

"These are a little short," she mutters, holding hers up to her body. She'd seen pictures, of course, of last year's players wearing these dresses, but she hadn't actually considered it with reference to her own body.

"I don't think we can play ball in these," Mary Margaret protests, "not without a whole lot of indecent exposure, anyway."

Ariel, the red-head next to them, agrees. "This is nuts. Mr. Nolan," she calls, "how are we supposed to slide onto bases in these?"

Nolan shrugs, clearly out of his league. "I don't know," he responds miserably. "Don't you have some shorts or bloomers you can wear under them?"

"Why can't we just wear shorts or bloomers without a crummy dress on top?" Mary Margaret complains under her breath, scowling.

Ruby, who's already pulled her uniform on over her clothes, laughs as she models it for the rest of the Belles. "I like it," she says, grinning wolfishly at all of them.

"Well, you've got the legs for it," a short brunette, who is – amusingly, Emma thinks – actually named Belle, points out.

"Yeah, enjoy it while you can," Ashley sighs. "Once you have a baby, you're not going to look like that anymore."

"Nah, I'm going to save up my money from baseball and travel the world," Ruby says confidently."But if I do have a baby, hopefully I'll end up like Emma. She's still pretty slim, _and_ she got to keep the bosoms."

"Hey!" Emma exclaims, face burning scarlet. She's not in this to have her body critiqued like she's not even present. "Is this beauty school or baseball practice?"

"Sorry," Ruby quickly apologizes, "you do look good, though."

Twirling a lock of hair around her finger, Belle muses, "That's kind of the point, isn't it?" The whole team turns to stare at her. "The owners are in this to make money, you know. They want good ballplayers, but also pretty girls who'll look good on camera. That's why we're supposed to get makeovers at that beauty school next week."

Emma rolls her eyes at Mary Margaret's confounded expression. "Well, I don't mind wearing a crummy dress to play ball if I get seventy bucks a week for it," she declares, and most of the other players nod.

"Are you ladies ready to play ball?" David calls, rubbing his forehead and likely wondering if it's too late to get himself an easier gig.

* * *

Her entire first week on the Belles, Emma routinely pinches herself to ensure she's not dreaming. She can't believe her good fortune: better pay, better hours, and not to mention, she gets to play baseball for a living. If someone had told her when she was younger that at age twenty-eight, she'd be tossing a ball around with her friends and getting good money for it, she'd never have believed it, but here she is.

Playing with the best athletes in the country is tiring, of course, but her fatigue after a hard training session is nothing compared to the sheer exhaustion she felt after every double shift in the factory. Instead of hour after hour of brain-numbing monotony, she actually looks forward to going to "work" every day.

Every day, that is, until charm school.

"The thing about being professional athletes," David explains, hands trembling slightly, "is that you'll have to do a lot of interviews, especially if we win. Mr. Gold wants to be sure your...your...comportment," he finally spits out, after a harried glance at his note cards, "reflects well on the league. Some of you are closer to that standard than others, but you'll all have to attend Mrs. Tremaine's Charm School."

Mary Margaret raises her hand and asks, giggling, "Who's Mrs. Tremaine? Why aren't you teaching it, _Charming_?"

Ruby rolls her eyes. "She could lay off the flirting a little bit. I'm surprised he still hasn't caught on," she whispers to Emma, who snorts.

Loudly.

It's decidedly _not_ charming - which is, coincidentally, the first thing Mrs. Tremaine, an older woman with a perfectly set perm and too many pearls, says about her.

Not that charm school does rankings, but Emma can say with absolute certainty that she's in the bottom of her class in everything. Can't put on make-up, can't style her hair, can't walk in heels... Even country bumpkin Ruby, who "paints her face like a nightclub dancer" at least knows how to apply lipstick on her actual lips.

"Really, dear, did your mother never teach you anything about being a lady?" Mrs. Tremaine tuts when Emma sits incorrectly for about the fifth time.

"Uh...no, actually. They didn't really have time for this kind of thing at the orphanage,"

"Oh," the instructor replies, caught off-guard, _"oh."_ She makes a fine show of hiding her discomfort – clears her throat, tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, and forces a simpering smile. "Well, then it's a good thing we're teaching you now, while there's still time to get you a husband."

Emma rolls her eyes. "I had a husband already," she points out, though she neglects to mention the fact that it had been a shotgun affair and they'd both been kicked out of high school. "He died in the war."

Mrs. Tremaine doesn't say a word to her for the remainder of the lesson, but Emma catches her murmuring to one of her assistants, "What a _tragic_ past."

She plops onto a chair as loudly as possible and sits with her legs apart, just out of spite.

"Advantages of a traumatic childhood," she tells a pink-faced Mary Margaret, who looks deeply uncomfortable with the whole discussion.

Staring at her lap, the younger woman whispers, "My mother died when I was young, but I had a nanny who taught me everything. I still visit her sometimes; if you want, I could –"

"No!" Emma exclaims. And now everyone is staring. "It's not...no, I'm fine," she clarifies, lowering her voice. She's twenty-eight years old: her time for being mothered has come and gone. Thank god she ended up with a boy – she can't even imagine trying to teach a daughter how to get by in the world.

"Alright," Mary Margaret replies dubiously. "Johanna is wonderful, though, if you ever need someone."

It's then and there that Emma decides, despite some highly questionable flirting choices, she likes Mary Margaret Blanchard. She spends the rest of their classes trying to follow the younger woman's lead, up until the point that Mary Margaret runs out crying because Mrs. Tremaine asked her if she owned a hairbrush.

Teatime is the worst.

It's disgustingly weak tea, with no milk or sugar because of the war, that they have to sip slowly and only when they're told. It's plates full of biscuits they're not allowed to eat, only sit (legs crossed at the ankles, right over left) and stare at, because that's what "ladies" do.

Emma eats one anyway. It's rock-solid and flavorless, but she assumes it has some nutritional value, and she's unaccustomed to letting perfectly edible food go untouched. When Mrs. Tremaine and her assistants aren't looking, she stuffs a few in her pockets to take home to Henry, who's grown an inch in the last month and isn't particularly picky about his snacks.

She supposes that "ladies" can afford to peck at their food instead of stuffing themselves with everything in sight before someone bigger comes to take it away.

Actually, being a lady probably has its advantages, but for now, she'll take being a ballplayer.

* * *

"Ma!" Henry screeches as he sprints up the stairs to their apartment. "Ma! Look what came in the mail!" After slamming the door shut, he dive-bombs Emma where she's sitting on the couch, massaging her right bicep after a tough training session, and shoves an envelope in her face. "Look, Ma! Look! It's from her!"

Sure enough, it says _R. Mills_ in the upper left corner, followed by a Maine address. Emma takes a second to marvel at Regina's beautiful cursive – her own is chicken scratch – and wonder if she'd been the top student in her charm school class. Probably. She seems the type to be the top in everything she does.

"She wrote you a letter? Huh." Raising one eyebrow, Emma lifts the envelope up to the light, but she can't see through it – there's something small and thick blocking her view. "Isn't it usually the other way around? The fans write letters to the players?"

"I don't know!" Henry exclaims. "Give it back! I want to read it."

She expects him to tear the envelope open in all his eagerness, but instead he grabs a knife from the kitchen and slowly, carefully cuts the flap open, handling the paper as if it's made of glass. He gasps when he sees what's inside.

"Ma! It's a Henry Mills baseball card!"

"Great!" she says with as much enthusiasm as she can muster, given how exhausted she is. She's not particularly surprised – given the context of their conversation, she'd been unable to imagine many other reasons Regina Mills would have wanted to write to her son – but it still puts a lump in her throat that a perfect stranger had cared enough to make his day.

"And look, Ma! It's signed!" He thrusts the card at her and sure enough, the name _Henry Mills_ is scrawled across it: not nearly as neat as his daughter's penmanship, but still legible.

A small piece of floral-edged stationery that apparently escaped Henry's notice flutters to the floor, and Emma eyes it curiously. "Hey, kid, I think she wrote you a letter," she remarks.

Henry picks up the paper with only the tips of his fingers and opens it slowly, grin widening the longer he continues to read.

"What's the Evil Queen have to say for herself?" Emma asks. "Mind if I read it?"

"What? No, it's private!" Henry exclaims, clutching the note to his chest.

_Private letters with the Evil Queen?_ Emma's not quite sure how she feels about that. Not that she thinks there'd be anything _bad_ in the letters, but... well, he's only got her to keep him safe now.

"Why don't you go put that card somewhere special and finish up your homework while I get started on dinner?" she asks nonchalantly, choosing to let it go for now. "I was thinking mashed potatoes and spinach tonight so we can save the meat for something special on Sunday."

"Yes on mashed potatoes, no on spinach," he proclaims before turning toward his room.

"Not so fast! _At least_ three bites of spinach or you can't go to the movies with Grace tomorrow."

"Ma! I have to see _The Three Caballeros!_" he whines. "If I don't see it by Monday, everyone at school will tell me how it ends!"

"Then eat three bites of spinach. And get an A on your spelling test."

"Fine," Henry grumbles, shuffling off to his room like he's been severely put upon. Emma listens outside the door for a minute until she hears the scratch of his pencil and decides he doesn't need any further cajoling to study.

He's a good kid, she thinks as she sets a pot of water on the stove to boil. She's been a decent parent, despite having little guidance and no example to follow. At the very least, he won't end up dropping out of high school and becoming a father while he's still practically a child himself.

And she knows that, of course, but every time Henry gets another A or says something smart at the dinner table, it helps to chip away at the anxiety she'll probably never fully shake.

It's not until later, when Henry's sleeping (or, more likely, reading in his bed), that she notices Regina's letter on the coffee table. She hesitates for just a second before lifting it up, but Henry is concerned enough about his privacy that he'd have brought it to his room if he really didn't want her to read it, so she thinks she's safe.

_Dear Henry_, it begins, in the same beautiful, loopy script she'd seen on the envelope,

_I just hoped to let you know what a pleasure it was to meet you the other day. It's not often that I get a chance to talk to fans about my father, who has always been my inspiration. He taught me how to play ball when I was just a little girl (even younger than you!), and I think about him every single practice and game. Needless to say, this card is very special to me, but I know that you will take special care of it._

_Baseball was my father's lifelong passion, and he always said the year he played professionally was one of the best years of his life. Whatever your passion is, I hope that when you look at this card, you will remember that following your dreams can take a lot of hard work and courage, but it is essential to never stop believing in yourself._

_Best Regards,_

_Regina Mills_

_P.S. I look forward to seeing you when we play the Belles. Please tell your mother I wish her the best of luck_

_P.P.S. She'll need it._

Emma smirks and carefully re-folds the letter before tiptoeing to Henry's door and poking her head in – he's out cold. She sees the Henry Mills card propped up on the bookshelf with the photo of Ted Williams and Regina's ball, and she places the letter next to it. It's softer than she'd expected from the famed "Evil Queen," almost sentimental.

Well, maybe it was Henry who brought it out, she reflects. It wouldn't be the first time he's had that effect on someone.

And on that note, she gently kisses the kid on the forehead before turning out the light. "Goodnight, Henry," she whispers. "Sweet dreams."

* * *

_Take me out to the ball game,__  
__Take me out with the crowd;__  
__Just buy me some__peanuts__and__Cracker Jack__,__  
__I don't care if I never get back.__  
__Let me root, root, root for the home team,__  
__If they don't win, it's a shame.__  
__For it's one, two, three strikes, you're out,__  
__At the old ball game._

The bus erupts in cheers at the end of Henry's rousing rendition of the Tin Pan Alley classic, and Emma leans back in her seat, grinning. She'd worried her teammates would resent having to cart her son around on road trips, but Henry's suddenly more popular than he's ever been in his life, and no one can stop fawning over Ashley's two kids, a baby and a toddler. Alexandra, who's just starting to walk, is chasing Henry up and down the aisle and generally entertaining the crowd.

She supposes it's nice to have the kids around, reminding everyone that at the end of the day, it's just a game. Lord only knows they need _something_ to take the edge off their nerves, and Ruby's suggestion of liquor had been soundly rejected by their manager.

"We're going up against the Evil Queen," she'd mumbled, shuddering and going slightly green. "Does anyone have any prayers, superstitions, _anything?"_

Now that the song is over, she's rubbing the wolf pendant around her neck like that'll somehow bring her luck.

"I don't think we need luck," Mary Margaret argues. "She's a pitcher, not an actual sorceress. _I_ say we can beat the Chickadees."

"I agree!" another player exclaims, a tall redhead named Zelena with great skills but little concept of strategy. "I don't think the Evil Queen is all she's cracked up to be. We can take her down."

Beside Emma, Henry twitches like he's going to say something, but she shushes him just in time. "Hey kid, it's okay if she's your favorite, but she's our opponent. They're just trying to get sharp for the game."

Henry rolls his eyes and whispers back, "Well, it's not nice to talk about taking her down."

"Kid, that's how sports work. You've gotta root for your own team if you want to win."

He considers for a moment before smirking at whatever little private joke he'd just thought up. "Ma, is it okay if I root for both teams?" he asks.

"Do whatever you want, but don't get mad if the Belles don't share your opinion of your beloved Regina. Her Majesty didn't write _us_ letters, you know."

"She wished you luck!"

Emma sighs. He's still a little young to completely get the concept of sarcasm, so she just says, "Yeah, kid. That was pretty swell of her."

_"Hennnn-wyyyyyy_," Alexandra whines. "Sing a song!"

"Well, kid, you've got your orders," Emma laughs, and Henry obligingly bounces the little girl on his knee while launching into "Joltin' Joe DiMaggio." Chuckling, the players sing along, and everyone seems to forget, for a time, that they're headed to their first professional ballgame, where certain defeat awaits them.

But the carefree illusion is shattered the second the bus pulls up to the stadium and the first thing Emma sees out the window is Regina Mills, munching on an apple and looking ready for battle. "Here goes nothing," Ruby mutters, and Emma is inclined to agree.

* * *

The game is a blow-out; they'd expected as much from the get-go, and anyone who'd stepped off the bus harboring even a modicum of hope quickly loses it at the sight of Regina Mills's warm-up pitches and Albert Spencer's demeaning sneer from the opposing bench. They're done for.

"I can't believe I have to shake hands with that man," Nolan mutters, wearing the closest thing to a scowl Emma has ever seen on his face.

"Sir?" Ashley asks worriedly, but he's already got his pleasant smile back on and his clipboard out, and they're ready for business.

"Go Regina!" Henry hollers from the stands, wearing the Chickadees colors even though he's sitting in the Belles's section. "Pitch a perfect game today!"

To everyone's shock – especially Emma's – Regina actually breaks from her solitary stretch routine for just long enough to blow him a kiss. It's a daytime game, but the glow from Henry's grin would be enough to light up the whole stadium, maybe even the whole state of Maine.

Maybe, as David optimistically points out later, the game isn't a _complete_ blow-out. After all, Ashley puts in a solid showing on the mound, and their fielding is adequate enough to keep the Chickadees to four runs. Mary Margaret, in particular, has several instrumental plays at first base, but the fact remains that Regina Mills grants Henry's exact wish.

She pitches a perfect game.

"You girls played well, but that pitcher is dynamite," Nolan consoles them after the game, but he looks as flabbergasted as his players. "I've gone up against some pitchers in the Majors who could throw faster, but she's _smart_."

"So what?" Mary Margaret challenges. "Are you saying we can never beat the Chickadees? Because more than half of our games are against them – they're the only other New England team."

"What? No." Now Nolan looks completely lost. "I certainly never said we should give up hope! We'll just have to do something differently. I haven't figured out what, though."

It's Emma who has the most success against the Evil Queen: she actually gets a piece of the ball about three times, though it always ends up just a hair over the foul line. She imagines it must be something about the woman's piercing gaze – the way she seems to stare straight into Emma's soul and right through her all at once – that disarms her so much she can barely swing a bat. It's hard to reconcile this persona, this cold-blooded competitor, with the woman who writes heartfelt notes about her father and blows kisses to excited little boys in the stands.

And Emma has to wonder why she's so determined to figure it out.

Almost as if she can sense Emma's thoughts, Regina smirks before throwing the third pitch.

"Strike three!" the umpire shouts as Emma's bat swishes through the air, just before the taunting _thwack_ of the ball hitting the catcher's glove. "Batter out!"

It's the last out of the game. The home crowd erupts in cheers, chanting their love for the Evil Queen, which Regina largely ignores. "You did good, Ma," Henry consoles her. "No one can beat Regina, though. She's the best."

She briefly questions whether Henry could benefit from a class at Mrs. Tremaine's Charm School before a two-hour ride with a bunch of crestfallen ballplayers. Maybe all of the peanuts he ate will put him to sleep.

"Regina!" she calls on her way out of the stadium, chasing after the woman's retreating form until she stops just before the bus. "I just wanted to say thanks," she says breathlessly when she finally catches up. It's more running than she'd done in nine whole innings. "Sending Henry that card – it meant a lot to him. More than you know. You really didn't have to do that."

"I know," Regina replies, dark eyes inscrutable, and Emma's even more on-edge. "I wanted to, It meant a lot to me, too."

"Right. Well, anyway, thank you. Again."

"You're very welcome." With a friendly nod, Regina turns back to the bus where the rest of the Chickadees are waiting, but she pauses just before stepping up, like a thought has just occurred to her. "You're starting your swing too early," she tells Emma. "My fastball's not Bob Feller's. _Patience_. Wait for the pitch to come to you."

Emma blinks, confused. "Thanks?" she responds hesitantly. "Are you... why would you give tips to your opponents?"

"Not_ all_ of my opponents," Regina says with a shrug. "You've got potential, and as much as I enjoy padding my statistics, I enjoy a good match even more."

It seems logical enough, but why is her heart doing back-flips? "Uh... okay. Thank you, I guess. Doesn't seem very Evil Queen-like, though," she jokes and immediately wants to smack herself.

Eyes sparkling, Regina demands, "What's a good villain without a worthy opponent?" and enters the bus without another word. Emma stands, watching Regina through the window as she makes her way to her seat. The corners of her lips are upturned, like she's having her own little private joke, and Emma feels something flutter deep down in her gut, lovely and unnerving all at once.

"Ma!" Henry calls from across the parking lot, poking his head through the bus window. "Hurry up! You're last on the bus!"

Emma hurries over to join her team, hoping the jog will clear her head, and joins Henry in the seats he's saved for them. "Were you talking to Regina?" he asks eagerly. "Isn't she nice?"

"I... I don't know," Emma replies, feeling a little faint. "She's definitely _something."_

_Something_ that remains on Emma's mind for the remainder of the trip back to Boston.

Something that's dancing before her eyes until the moment she closes them, in her bed that feels too hot and too cold at the same time.

It's not a restful slumber.


	3. The Telegram

**Note: **The italicized portions of this chapter are excerpts from the prayer "Let Our Hearts Be Stout," written by US President Franklin D. Roosevelt and originally broadcast on June 6, 1944 (aka D-Day).

* * *

**Chapter 3: The Telegram**

Their first humiliating loss against the Chickadees is followed by a month of victories all across the nation, broken only by a single loss at home against the Rockford Peaches that's almost immediately avenged. They're doing well; they're doing so much better than expected.

"We've got the second best record in the league," Mary Margaret comments brightly during one training session at the end of May, though she pointedly neglects to mention that the first place team is still undefeated, and they're facing the Chickadees again soon, in a double-header at home the weekend of June tenth.

Their training has ramped up in preparation, and apart from caring for Henry, Emma is living and breathing baseball. It's sometimes difficult to remember that there's a whole world outside of the league: a world where the Belles and Chickadees matter less than the Allies and the Axis Powers.

She's embarrassed to admit that she sometimes forgets.

"Ma!" Henry hollers on Tuesday evening while Emma's in the midst of mashing turnips. "Ma, listen! Mr. FDR's on the radio! Something big just happened!"

Emma immediately drops what she's doing and rushes into the living room, wiping her hands on her apron, just in time to hear the beginning of the address.

_My Fellow Americans:_

_Last night, when I spoke with you about the fall of Rome, I knew at that moment that troops of the United States and our Allies were crossing the Channel in another and greater operation. It has come to pass with success thus far._

"That's good, right?" Henry whispers. Emma nods, speechless, and places her finger over her lips in the hope that he'll get the hint to listen quietly.

_And so, in this poignant hour, I ask you to join with me in prayer:_

_Almighty God: Our sons, pride of our nation, this day have set upon a mighty endeavor, a struggle to preserve our Republic, our religion, and our civilization, and to set free a suffering humanity._

_Lead them straight and true; give strength to their arms, stoutness to their hearts, steadfastness in their faith._

_They will need Thy blessings. Their road will be long and hard. For the enemy is strong. He may hurl back our forces. Success may not come with rushing speed, but we shall return again and again; and we know that by Thy grace, and by the righteousness of our cause, our sons will triumph._

"I hope they triumph soon," Henry muses. "Grace's papa's been gone a long time." Then his face pales, and he whispers, "Ma, what if his plane gets shot down?"

"Henry, it's really not useful to think that way," Emma sighs. "If his plane gets shot down, then we'll find out, okay? There's not much we can do to prevent it."

"But Grace's ma already died, so –"

"Henry, this is above our pay grade. We're not on the front lines. If something happens to her papa, Grace's grandparents will take good care of her. She's a strong girl and she's got a lot of friends to help her through it, like you."

_Some will never return. Embrace these, Father, and receive them, Thy heroic servants, into Thy kingdom._

_And for us at home - fathers, mothers, children, wives, sisters, and brothers of brave men overseas, whose thoughts and prayers are ever with them - help us, Almighty God, to rededicate ourselves in renewed faith in Thee in this hour of great sacrifice._

"See, you can pray for him," Emma whispers. She's not religious herself, and she certainly hadn't raised Henry to be, but she reasons that a bit of prayer can't hurt. At the very worst, it'll do nothing, which is about all they'd be doing anyway.

_Give us strength, too - strength in our daily tasks, to redouble the contributions we make in the physical and the material support of our armed forces._

_And let our hearts be stout, to wait out the long travail, to bear sorrows that may come, to impart our courage unto our sons wheresoever they may be._

"They probably need a lot of courage, right?" Henry asks. "The soldiers, I mean."

"Yeah, I'd imagine fighting in a war is pretty scary. Let's talk when this is over, alright?"

"Alright," he agrees.

_With Thy blessing, we shall prevail over the unholy forces of our enemy. Help us to conquer the apostles of greed and racial arrogances. Lead us to the saving of our country, and with our sister nations into a world unity that will spell a sure peace - a peace invulnerable to the schemings of unworthy men. And a peace that will let all of men live in freedom, reaping the just rewards of their honest toil._

_Thy will be done, Almighty God.__Amen._

"Amen," Henry repeats, eyes wide, with all the zeal and fervor of a boy never been to church a day in his life. Emma thinks she might have a moment of peace to process it all while he's engaged in prayer, but the questions start almost immediately. "Ma, do you think the Allies are going to win the war soon? I know Mr. FDR said it's gonna be a 'long travail,' but does that mean –"

"Henry," Emma interrupts, "I'm sorry. I'm not a war strategist. I have no idea what the president or General Eisenhower are planning. You could write to them and ask, but I don't think they'd have much to tell you."

"It would probably have lots of black tape on it anyway, like Dad's letters did. One time Grace got a letter and the only thing that wasn't blacked-out was 'Love, Papa.'"

"Well, the love's the most important part," Emma reasons. "Now do you want to keep listening to the news, or help me with dinner?"

"I'll help," he replies. "Do we have enough sugar to make cocoa?"

Emma considers a moment before slinging an arm over his shoulder and nodding. "I think we do, kid. This probably counts as a special occasion."

* * *

It's mid-afternoon when the first game starts, and the bleachers are packed like Emma's never seen them. It seems as though the entire city came out for a Saturday afternoon ballgame; it reminds her of Fenway before the war.

"Wow," Ruby comments, "it's almost like people are excited to see a girls' game."

"Regina Mills is here," Emma replies under her breath. Henry's been chattering on for a weeks about it, before D-Day started consuming all of his focus. Every other sentence was about the Evil Queen coming to Boston and his entire class going to watch and "Please, Ma, can't I talk to her after the game?" ("We'll see," she'd promised.)

Sure enough, when the players' names are announced, Mills draws the loudest response, split about fifty-fifty between cheers and angry mutterings. Emma has a sizeable cheering section of her own, led mostly by Henry's classmates, and of the other Belles have amassed somewhat of a following in their first six weeks of play, but it's nothing compared to the thunderous applause that follows "Number eighteen, Regina Mills!"

"She's almost like a celebrity," mutters Mary Margaret, shooting a glare out of the corner of her eye at the pitcher as she warms up on the mound. Mary Margaret has an odd competitive streak, Emma's noticed. She's bright and friendly and cheerful to a fault, but the Chickadees bring out her nasty side like none other. The fiercer the competition, the stronger her hatred. "A celebrity we're going to defeat."

Emma leads off for the Belles, anxiously kicking at the dirt by home plate as she waits for Regina to get ready. Gold had spoken to her before the game ("This is the biggest crowd we've had yet in Boston, Miss Swan. Starting the game off with a hit could be useful in sparking their interest.") and she's feeling the pressure more than she'd expected.

There's a sly twinkle in Mills' eye as she throws the first pitch, straight down the middle of Emma's strike zone. She swings and just barely misses, whiffing the air right under the ball as the crowd boos.

"Great pitch, Regina!" Henry hollers, and Emma rolls her eyes.

She gets a piece of the second pitch, barely, and sends it weakly over the wrong side of the foul line.

"You can do it, Emma!" Ruby calls from the dugout. "If anyone can get a hit off the Evil Queen, it's you."

She makes eye-contact with Regina and is surprised to see that the opposing pitcher almost looks disappointed in her. Then, to her disbelief, Regina mouths a word to her.

"P – pay...?" Emma stares for a moment, befuddled, until she finally remembers. _Patience._ She steps up to the plate with newfound determination, staring directly at Regina's elbow as she winds up and fires the ball over the plate again. This time, she waits just a half-second longer to swing, and she's stunned when she feels solid contact on the bat and hears the _crack_ as the ball goes flying into the outfield.

"It's a good hit!" Nolan yells. "Run, Emma!"

She runs. She makes it to second base before the Chickadees get their act together, since they're apparently inexperienced at fielding actual hits. Regina strikes Ruby and Mary Margaret out, but Zelena manages to hit a double that allows Emma to run home.

It's their first (and last) run of the game.

Nolan tries to console them after the three-one loss. "Hey, we scored a point against the Chickadees! That's progress."

"Nobody wants to be second best," Zelena snaps as she oils her glove.

Their manager sighs. "Well, Rome wasn't built in a day," he reminds them. "And Regina Mills is the Caesar of pitchers. We have time; the World Series isn't until the fall." On his way out of the locker room, her stops to pat Emma on the shoulder. "Hey, great job. That was some hit."

She shrugs, unwilling to divulge that the hit hadn't been her doing at all: that the very same pitcher who struck out every single one of her teammates had _helped_ her score a run.

She doesn't understand it.

"It was alright," she mumbles.

Misinterpreting her reticence, David just smiles and says, "We'll get 'em next time."

Later, in front of the Chickadees' bus, she demands, "Why did you do that?"

"Can you keep your voice down?" Regina hisses. "I did it because I wanted to."

"But _why?"_

"You're a good player," Regina says matter-of-factly. "You have so much potential. I'm not sure if your manager is doing a particularly good job bringing it out of you."

"But...but isn't that your goal?" stammers Emma. She's never had someone care about her "potential" before. Heck, she's never been told she even _had_ potential before.

"My goal is to be a professional ballplayer," Regina informs her in hushed tones, dragging her behind the bus so they won't be heard by her teammates or the gathering crowd of reporters, "at least until I have children. As Gold so frequently informs all of us, I can't be a professional ballplayer if the league doesn't exist, and the league won't exist without ticket revenue. Fans want adrenaline – close games."

"I'm pretty sure fans buy tickets to see _you_ because you're the best," Emma points out, recalling the packed stadium.

"That's different. No one's going to accept just an average Puerto Rican player in the 'All-American League;' I _need_ to be the best. It's like a spectacle for the fans. But you know what else makes a good spectacle? Rivalries."

"Rivalries?" Emma whispers. "You mean... you want us to be rivals?"

"I'm the best pitcher in New England, you're the best hitter, we're on opposing teams... it adds up."

Emma considers for a moment._ Ticket sales, newspaper articles, higher salary – the possibility to save up for Henry to go to college. _"I'm in," she declares. "So, should we stage a fight right here? Make a good story?"

Regina shakes her head. "Not the kind of rivalry that will make them look down on us. Rivals on the field – friends off of it. Like _ladies._"

"Sounds good," Emma replies, voice squeaking embarrassingly. She can't help but wonder at how someone could be so talented at baseball and so politically savvy at the same time. "You really know what you're doing."

"I've learned a thing or two over the years," Regina agrees.

Emma forces a smile, but there's still one thing needling at her that needs to be addressed. "So, um...if we're going to be friends off the field, we should probably spend time together, don't you think?"

_"Ladies, the bus is leaving in five!"_

_"Ma? Where are you?"_

"Here's an idea," Regina says quickly, "we're staying in Boston tonight because of the double-header. Let's have dinner: you, me, and Henry. Our chaperone won't have a problem with my visiting a woman and child."

"Ma? Ma! There you are!" Henry exclaims, finally catching sight of the pair. "What are you two talking about."

"Um..." What's wrong with her? Why does she feel like she's floating outside of her body? "Henry, how would you feel about eating dinner with Regina tonight?"

His jaw drops. "Are you kidding?"

"No, she's not," Regina laughs before telling them an address. "We have a friendly rivalry that we need to discuss. I'll see you at six-thirty?"

* * *

Emma studies herself critically in the mirror, tugging at the dress that's just not sitting right no matter how much she adjusts it. It's the one dress she hadn't donated to the Ladies' Auxiliary, who were using the scraps to make quilts for the troops, and she hasn't worn it since the last time she'd gone dancing with Neal. She's put on a lot of muscle in the last five years, she reflects.

More like the last three months, actually.

She's not sure why she cares so much about this. It's Regina Mills: they know each other from baseball. Regina has only ever seen her dirt-stained and sweaty. She doesn't need to show off her newfound hair and makeup skills.

"Ma, hurry up!" Henry hollers impatiently, barging into the bathroom without so much as a knock.

"Henry, you have to stop doing that! You're getting too old."

"What? I know you're wearing clothes. You've just been staring at your face for twenty minutes. It looks fine."

"Really? You think so?"

"Yeah," he says with a sigh, "I don't know why you curled your hair, though."

Emma sighs. "I goofed on that, but it's not like I can uncurl it now," she mutters, chewing her lower lip and wondering why she even bothered. Why does she even care what Regina thinks, anyway?

"It's fine," Henry quickly reassures her, "just different. What if Regina doesn't recognize you? Anyway, let's go! We're gonna be late."

"Okay, fine," Emma laughs, stumbling after Henry as he drags her toward the door. "Wait just a second." She races to the closet and pulls out the old bomber jacket Neal had always said was good luck. "You think this looks sharp?" she asks Henry.

Groaning loudly, he replies, "How should I know? I'm ten."

They take the trolley to the North End, where Regina is waiting for them in front of a cozy-looking Italian restaurant on Hanover Street. "I hope you don't mind," she says quietly. "This is the only Boston restaurant I know; it used to be my father's favorite."

"Well, in that case..."

Emma doesn't get a chance to finish whatever joke she was about to make – not that she's even fully aware of what's coming out of her mouth with Regina in front of them looking like a million bucks – because Henry is far too excited to stay silent for long. "It's the first restaurant I've ever been to!" he exclaims.

"Yeah, we don't get out much," Emma chuckles, staring sheepishly at her feet. "Couldn't afford to take the kid anywhere he might learn social skills."

"Not a problem," Regina immediately replies, laying one hand lightly on Emma's shoulder and the other on Henry's. "If this is your first time, then I'm glad to be a part of it."

Emma shivers, feeling a buzz of energy where Regina's hand is touching her, even through two layers of cloth. If Regina senses her discomfort, she doesn't mention it, instead leading them both inside. Regina seems like she's done all of this before, Emma notices; she's very cosmopolitan for someone from rural Maine. She's in a tight, black dress that's toeing the line between tasteful and sexy, and her clutch and shoes both match her bright red lips. She's got the eyes of every man in the room on her from the moment she enters, including several members of the jazz band, who break from their improvisation to whistle at her.

"Live jazz!" Henry exclaims. "This is swell! Do you know which band it is?"

"Nobody famous," Regina laughs. "This place isn't popular enough to get any of the big-name artists."

Henry doesn't seem to mind: his entire body is visibly shaking with excitement as they walk to their table.

"You sure know how to make an entrance," Emma remarks drily.

"They're looking at you, too, you know," Regina replies, sounding vaguely amused. "You've got a rebellious girl-next-door sort of charm."

Emma reaches up to feel her face. Is she _blushing?_ It's too dim in here for anyone to tell, but her cheeks certainly feel warm. Or maybe not – maybe it's just the candlelight. Regina's hand is still on her shoulder and it's preventing her from thinking straight. "Not like you, though," she mumbles. "You look sensational."

Regina shrugs as she sits down carefully and says, "I try to play up the image the league executives want me to cultivate. It's a delicate balance between high-born classy socialite and exotic Latin dancer."

"What do they care about your image?" Emma wonders aloud, trying to ignore the emptiness she feels without Regina's touch. "You're the best female player in the entire country."

Rolling her eyes, Regina explains, "Yes, but I believe Mr. Gold might prefer it if I was the best player in the country while also looking a bit more like you."

"I think you're the most beautiful person _ever_," Henry pipes up, and Emma's privately inclined to agree. "Even more beautiful than my Ma."

"Thank you, dear," Regina replies, eyes twinkling. "That's why you're my favorite."

"Are you married?" he suddenly asks, causing an alarmed Emma to spit out her water.

"She's a little old for you, kid."

"Not like that!" Henry exclaims furiously. "I was just wondering, because she has a ring." Regina pats his hand, obviously struggling to hold back laughter.

"I'm engaged," she tells him. "My fiancé's name is Daniel. He was a horse trainer before the war, but now he's in Europe."

"In the army?" Henry guesses, and Regina nods. "Was he in Normandy? Or Rome?"

"I... I really have no idea," Regina murmurs, clenching and unclenching her hands while staring fixedly at the diamond on her finger as it glitters in the candlelight. "I haven't heard from him for a few weeks."

"I'm sure he's fine," Emma says, and she shoots Henry a warning look. "Probably really busy. I bet they haven't had a lot of time to write, preparing for the invasions and all of that."

"Yeah," Henry adds eagerly, "and probably if he wrote about it, it would all get blacked out anyway. Right, ma?"

Emma nods. "Right. So, should we figure out what we're eating?"

Regina starts reading down the menu, pausing to recommend about every third dish, and they end up with more food than Emma's ever seen in one place. "My treat," Regina insists. "I haven't had friends to take out in a very long time."

"Aren't you friends with the girls on your team?" Henry asks, digging into the linguine carbonara.

"We get on well," Regina replies, in a clipped tone that lets Emma know the real answer is probably no. "Our manager doesn't want us to be too friendly outside of training, though: he thinks we might lose focus."

"Well, seems like that's going good for you," Emma says with a shrug. "You sure win enough."

"We work together very well, and it's nice to have friends outside the team, to get away from it all for a while." Henry swells with pride. "So, Henry, do you play baseball, too?" Regina asks, smoothly changing the subject.

"Sometimes at school, but I'm not any good at it," he says, face falling. "Mostly I just like to watch."

"Fans are very important, too!" Regina quickly reassures him. "Why, without fans, we wouldn't even have a league."

"I guess," he agrees reluctantly, "but it would be nice to be good at it."

"I'm sure you have something special you're good at," Regina protests.

"He does!" says Emma. "He won a prize for his writing last summer."

Regina's eyes immediately light up. "You're a writer? Now that's really special. Tell me what kinds of things you write." That bursts the dam. Henry spends the rest of dinner regaling Regina with summaries of all of his stories while their food grows cold, and Emma looks on with amusement that quickly morphs into some kind of indescribable admiration as she watches Regina interact with Henry. Something about the way she hangs onto his words makes it seem like they're the only two people in the room.

_She'll be a great mother_, Emma thinks, taking a large bite of room-temperature lasagna, _whenever her fiancé eventually gets back from the war. _She wonders if Regina will stay in the league once she's married. She wonders if they'll still be friends.

Then Henry's saying something to her about how Mary Margaret looks like Snow White and how he wants to write a story for Walt Disney about how Snow White is secretly an evil mastermind, and Emma pulls her mind back to the present.

* * *

"Alright, kid, go sit with your friends," Emma says brightly, pointing Henry off in the direction of Ava, Nick, and Grace. "I'll see you after the game."

"Bye Ma!" he calls, already halfway up the steps in his excitement. "Good luck! You'll probably need it."

Scowling, Emma sticks out her tongue at his retreating back and jogs to the dugout, where Ruby and Mary Margaret are awaiting her in high spirits. "Today is the day," Mary Margaret declares. "I can feel it."

"Don't say that! You'll jinx us," Ruby cautions, rubbing her wolf pendant for luck.

Mary Margaret rolls her eyes and says, "Our pitching and fielding is great, and we're getting better at hitting off the Evil Queen. Anyway, she's either going to be tired from pitching yesterday, or we're getting the relief pitcher, who's nowhere near as good."

"I wouldn't underestimate Kathryn Midas," Nolan calls from the baseline, where he'd been discussing something with the umpire. "We've never seen her pitch, and she was playing for one of the top amateur teams in New York before this."

Mary Margaret fires something back, and then Ruby makes some sort of conciliatory remark, but Emma doesn't quite catch it. Her eyes have zeroed in on a man in a painfully familiar forest-green uniform approaching the visiting team's bench.

He's carrying a thin envelope and wearing a solemn expression as he walks resolutely through the dugout and knocks at the locker room door, and she quickly averts her eyes, praying with all her might Henry didn't see it. He still has nightmares, although they've been growing less and less frequent, about the day the news about Neal had come from the War Department. They'd found her at his class play and instantaneously created a "worst day of school" that would likely become impossible to top.

"Dang," Nolan says under his breath, coming up behind her. He's obviously seen it, too, although Mary Margaret and Ruby seem blissfully unaware as they giggle their way into the locker room.

"Someone's about to have the worst day of her life," Emma mutters.

He sighs and nods. "We could be optimistic and assume it's just an injury," he suggests. "Maybe he got shot in the kneecap and gets to come home in two weeks with a cane."

Emma shakes her head and grumbles, "The power of positive thinking." It doesn't work; she already knows it doesn't.

"Do me a favor?" David asks. "Don't mention it to any of the other girls until after the game. I don't... well, you know, I don't want anyone losing their heads. We all know there's a war going on, but..."

"Yeah, we have to play. I get it."

"Thanks, Emma," he says gratefully, tossing her a spare catcher's helmet. "I want you behind the plate today; Ashley seems the most confident throwing to you."

Emma inclines her head in acknowledgement and follows the rest of the team into the locker room, wishing she could feel confident about anything.

* * *

They score three runs in the first inning. Mary Margaret gets on base first, followed by Ruby, and then Zelena hits one out of the park before Regina Mills finally gets her act together and starts throwing strikes.

By that time, the Belles are already up 3-0. "The Evil Queen's throwing grapefruits," Zelena marvels.

"Well, it's hard to pitch two days in a row," Ashley reasons. "Do they really not have anyone else?"

"No one anywhere near that caliber," mutters Emma, trying to shake the sinking feeling in her gut that something is very, very wrong, and it's not just the pitching. Regina's posture, her concentration – it's all off.

In the second inning, Emma and Ruby both score off Mills' oddly slow fast balls, and in the third, Regina gets pulled out and replaced by Kathryn Midas, whom Emma remembers as a decent pitcher from tryouts, but not even close to the Evil Queen on a good day. The crowd boos as Mills leaves the mound, and Emma thinks she sees (and hears) Spencer berating his star in the dugout. She has to turn away.

"Are we going to beat the Chickadees?" Mary Margaret asks excitedly.

"Don't count your chickadees before they're hatched," Nolan jokes, and not even Mary Margaret laughs. "But yes, I think we have hope. Emma, you're up."

Turning to the stands as she makes her way up to the plate, Emma catches a glimpse of Henry's crestfallen face and can't focus on anything anymore.

She's out in three pitches.

Kathryn Midas may not be the Evil Queen, but she's solid. She only gives up one more run in the remainder of the game, but the Belles' trajectory is already set. Aside from a double in the fifth inning, they shut down the Chickadees' offense, much to the hometown crowd's delight (and confusion). In the end, the Belles win six to two.

_"I can't believe it!"_ the announcer exclaims. _"For the first time, the Maine Chickadees have been defeated, and by none other than our own Boston Belles!"_

The crowd stomps and hollers and generally lets loose. Mary Margaret squeals and hugs everyone on the team, seeming to take twice as long as David. There's talk of celebration: a team party.

And Emma mumbles something about Henry needing to rest for school on Monday and disappears before anyone can ask why she isn't jumping for joy. She's not sure if she could even explain it herself.

* * *

"I can't believe it," Henry's still complaining when they return to the apartment. "It's like that wasn't even Regina."

Emma chuckles uneasily. "Thanks for your support, kid," she mutters. "Always nice when your son's happy about your victory."

"You know what I mean!" he exclaims, scowling. "I'm happy for you, but you didn't win because you were good, you won because the other team went bonkers."

"They all seemed a little off, didn't they?" she muses. "But when the War Department delivers a telegram to the locker room, you know things aren't going to be great."

And _that_ is something she never should have said, Emma immediately realizes when Henry stops dead in his tracks, gaping at her.

"You never said they delivered a telegram!" he hollers, eyes accusatory. "It was for Regina, wasn't it?"

"Whoa, kid, keep your voice down! The neighbors are probably trying to sleep."

"Was it for Regina?" he demands, voice softer but still just as distraught. "Was it about Daniel? Is that why she didn't hear from him for so long?"

Emma shrugs, clenching her fists as the weight of the gut feeling she'd tried to hide from herself comes crashing down on her all at once. _Of course_ the telegram was about Daniel. _Of course_ that's why Regina's pitches were so off. How to explain that to Henry, though, when there's no way for him to make it right? "Kid, I don't know," she mumbles. "She didn't say anything to me – not that she would have, but I still have no idea."

"The telegram was for Regina; I know it was!" Henry insists hysterically. "Her fiancé Daniel – I bet he died in the D-Day invasion. That's why she was throwing so bad, because she was sad!"

"We don't _know_ that the telegram was for Regina," argues Emma. "We're making assumptions based on the information we have, but we don't have much. And if it was Regina's fiancé, if she'd wanted us to know, she would have told us. It's really none of our business, you know."

Henry's face is going red, and he seems like he's trying to hold back tears when he insists, "Just because she didn't want to talk to us, doesn't mean she doesn't need us!"

"Look, kid," Emma sighs, "I know you're upset, and you're probably right to be, but there's nothing we can do right now, okay? We can't just go bang down the door of the Chickadees' hotel. If Regina doesn't want to talk, she doesn't want to talk. We need to respect her privacy."

"But we're her friends!" Henry protests, lower lip jutted out. "She doesn't have anyone else."

"She has her teammates and her manager and her mom," Emma says firmly. "It's late, and you have school tomorrow. Get some sleep."

He just gives her this look, like he knows she's lying, and stomps to his room, muttering to himself all the way. Emma grunts and sinks onto the couch, head in her hands, unsure why she feels the way she does – more devastated, even, than she was when she found out about Neal. Empathy, she tells herself: pain on behalf of a woman she's come to consider an odd sort of friend.

Friend? No, Regina's not her friend. Ruby and Mary Margaret are her friends. Regina is...

Regina is...

She's not sure what Regina is; she's not sure how she feels about her; all she knows is that the thought of Regina hurting in any way, of Regina dealing with agonizing grief and the loss of the only man she'd ever loved, ever trusted, of Regina's tears...

It's too much. One hand clutching her stomach, Emma races to the bathroom, making it to the toilet just in time to spew out the remnants of her dinner while hot, angry tears stream down her cheeks.

Regina doesn't deserve this. Losing the love of your life without a chance to say goodbye – no one deserves this.

So wrapped up in her thoughts as she's washing her mouth out, Emma almost misses it over the sound over the sound of the faucet. Her head jerks up when she hears it, a tap as faint as it is unexpected at this hour: someone is at the door.


	4. Midnight Caller

**Notes:** Hello friends, I'm so sorry for my long absence. Life happened, and I took an extended break from writing fanfiction. However, I've decided to take this story off hiatus. There will likely be two more chapters after this one. (And yes, for people wondering, the reason for this story's M rating will likely show up in chapter 5.)

* * *

**Chapter 4: Midnight Caller**

_So wrapped up in her thoughts as she's washing her mouth out, Emma almost misses it over the sound over the sound of the faucet. Her head jerks up when she hears it, a tap as faint as it is unexpected at this hour: someone is at the door._

She hears another knock, louder this time, and finally starts moving towards the door, grabbing her heaviest wooden bat on the way. She doesn't know anyone who'd come calling so late in the evening, and she'd heard enough horror stories when they'd moved into this part of town that most nighttime sounds set her on edge. If anything happens to Henry...

No. She can't even think about that.

Treading softly, Emma inches up to the door and crouches down to peek through the keyhole. All she can see are hands – a woman's hands, tan and calloused, with a diamond ring on the left fourth finger – clenching and unclenching around a rumpled telegram.

_Regina?_

She opens the door in a hurry, stashing the bat against the coat rack beside her. Sure enough, Regina Mills stands before her, still dressed in her Chickadees uniform and looking like she hasn't showered. There are tear streaks in her makeup and down her cheeks, but her eyes are dry now, blank and inscrutable. When she speaks, her voice is a raspy whisper.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know where else to go. I had your address from Henry, and – I shouldn't have come. Forgive me."

"No!" Emma exclaims as Regina turns to walk away. "It's okay, really. Come in."

Regina looks unconvinced. "I wouldn't want to disturb Henry," she stammers. "I... I'm sure it's past his bedtime, and –"

"Kid sleeps like a rock," Emma reassures her, sending up a private plea to whatever deity actually exists that Henry had managed to fall asleep despite his distress. Regina would likely never admit it, but Emma guesses that her concern is less about disrupting his sleep and more about her own ability to face her most ardent admirer when she's barely functioning. "He won't be disturbed. Come in."

Regina hesitates for a moment before stepping through the door, cautiously glancing around the corner like she's nervous she'll find someone else there. She gives Emma a rueful half-smile when her eyes land on the bat. "It's late, isn't it?" she comments, mostly to herself.

"Who could sleep?" mumbles Emma. Since the moment she'd opened the door, she'd been unable to look Regina in the eye, fixated instead on the telegram in her hand. With a slight tremble, Regina suddenly looks down, seeming to remember the reason she's there, and leans against the wall with a sigh that's practically a sob. Emma closes the door behind her. "Want to sit?" she offers.

Whether from grief of indecision, Regina seems unable to reply, so Emma gently takes her by the wrist and leads her to the sofa. "It's a little lumpy," she apologizes, but her visitor doesn't respond or even acknowledge the remark. Eventually, Regina sits, staring off into space, and Emma tentatively eases onto the cushion beside her.

It's a while before Regina speaks again, and when she does, it's not what Emma expects.

"Mary Margaret Blanchard's stance is off. She'd have a lot more power behind her swing if she'd square her feet up a little."

Emma shrugs. Mary Margaret's a solid hitter, even if her form is a bit unorthodox. Regina doesn't seem to expect a response. She continues talking, eyes fixated on the same point on the wall.

"I'm not sure why your manager is having her play first base. Ruby Lucas would be a better choice. Mary Margaret used to be a catcher. My father coached her grammar school team." She finally looks at Emma. "But I suppose Nolan's got you in that role?"

"Ashley pitches best to me," Emma mumbles. "Nolan says she's more confident."

"Oh." Regina nods in understanding, lips pressed together in sort of a pained smile.

Figuring that perhaps talking about baseball is what Regina needs right now, Emma asks, "Do you have a favorite catcher?"

She's not sure, at first, if Regina heard her; her visitor is still staring blankly at the wall, either lost in thought or trying desperately to avoid it. Finally, when Emma's trying to decide whether to repeat the question or just move on, a barely perceptible shudder jerks Regina's neck and shoulders. "No," she replies.

"Does your manager –"

"I don't know what to do," Regina finally grits out, the hand holding the telegram trembling violently. For a moment, Emma thinks she's going to break down, but in a moment, Regina's hands stop trembling, and she sets the telegram on Emma's coffee table.

"I burned mine," Emma offers. It was less an act of rage or grief and more one of necessity – it was winter, her old boarding house had a woodstove, she needed kindling – but there was something satisfying about destroying it. About letting go.

Regina doesn't seem like she's there yet, though.

When she's able to speak again, Regina says, "My mother... she - she wants me to go back to Maine."

"Oh," Emma replies, confused. "Don't you have to go back anyway? I mean –"

"Not to train. She... I have to go home. After the funeral, she..."

Emma waits patiently while Regina struggles to find the words, although she's growing more and more worried. Is Regina going to hang up her baseball career?

She realizes, of course, that baseball should be the least of her concerns, but –

"She wants me to marry someone else." Regina's eyes are hard, her fists clenched at her sides. "She's been trying since I was eighteen. There's a man – I was... promised to him, but..."

Emma is appalled. "So soon?" she demands.

"I don't know how soon," Regina murmurs, "but I'm not sure how long I can avoid it. She's concerned I'm becoming an old maid, and Emma, I... I don't know how to fight her anymore."

"She doesn't own you," Emma protests, somehow terrified in spite of her conviction. The idea of Regina forced to marry someone she doesn't love – or, if she's being perfectly honest, the idea of Regina marrying at all – causes her insides to twist and turn with anger and dread and something else she can't name. "And neither does he, even if you were _promised_ to him. You get enough from the league that you can live on your own; you don't have to get married if you don't want to."

"I don't want to get married! To anyone...except Daniel." Regina chokes back a sob. "She wants me to quit the league. She never wanted me to be a ballplayer. If...if she gets me back in her grasp..."

"She can't control you," insists Emma. "You can live your own life."

"You don't know her. She can...she has influence in so many places."

Emma sighs. It's true; she doesn't know Regina's mother. She imagines, from what she's heard of the late Henry Mills's early retirement from baseball, that the woman knows how to get what she wants, but Regina is an adult. She's free to choose her own path.

Then again, Emma's never had a mother. Perhaps it's just something she can't understand.

The two women sit in silence for a few moments before Regina speaks again, drawing her knees into her chest, having obviously forgotten that the skirt of her Chickadees uniform leaves little to the imagination. "Emma," she says softly, "I hate to ask, but could I..."

"Sleep here tonight? Of course," Emma replies. "I'm not going to turn you loose in this neighborhood in the dark."

Regina shakes her head. "It's not that. I made it here just fine; I just..."

Her voice trails off, and Emma guesses, "You don't want to be alone?" Regina's eyes fill with tears and she nods, hugging her knees tighter and burying her face in them. Emma hesitates a moment before, slowly, uncertainly – she's never touched Regina before, and she's known grief to make people skittish – she inches toward Regina and drapes an arm over her shoulders. The other woman briefly tenses, and Emma's about to remove her arm, but then Regina leans into Emma's touch, a soft whimper escaping her throat, and Emma squeezes her eyes shut and wishes there was some way to make any of this better.

* * *

Emma buzzes with nervous energy as she tosses and turns in her bed, periodically casting nervous glances at the woman beside her. She's unused to sharing a bed with someone: save for a few rough nights with Henry after Neal had left, and a few more after they'd received the telegram, she's been alone every night for over two years. That's not it, though. She knows she'd be less uncomfortable sharing a bed with one of the girls on her team – heck, even a complete stranger.

It's Regina. It's always Regina, something about the other woman that sets her on edge and yet draws her in, completely enthralled. It's her intensity, her beauty, her enigma. There's something about her that's just magical, and Emma's unsure what it is.

But tonight, it's not even that. It's the pain radiating from Regina even as she's desperately trying to hold herself together. It's pain that Emma has no idea how to fix. Time helps, she knows that. Distraction helps, too, but those first few days...

She'd put her own grief over Neal aside very quickly, had buried the pain largely out of necessity. Henry had grieved longer, grieved harder, but he, too, had eventually moved on, never completely healed but better, stronger. Time helps, time heals.

_I didn't know where else to go._

She and Henry, of course, had each other. Regina has...

No one, apparently. A mother who's determined to marry her off and force her to abandon her passion. Teammates she doesn't seem to like.

Emma's heart breaks for her.

Regina, for her part, lies perfectly still on the other side of the bed, though her eyes are wide open and she looks about as far from sleep as Emma feels.

"I can sleep on your couch, if this is making you uncomfortable," she finally offers.

"No!" Emma exclaims. "Of course not! You're my guest; I – I can sleep on the couch if _you're_ uncomfortable."

"I'm not," says Regina, so quickly that Emma's taken aback.

"I'm not, either." Emma turns, rolling onto her side, and faces her bedmate. "I just don't know what to do," she confesses. "I – I wish there was some way I could make this better."

"There's not?" Regina asks, forcing a short laugh. "How did you get through it?"

"I..."

Emma's voice cracks; she's at a loss for how to explain the truth: that there is no answer. She thinks of lying, but it's too late. Regina's face contorts in horror, and she turns away for a second, her chest shuddering under labored breaths. When she finally rolls over again, she digs her nails into her leg as she lifts her eyes to meet Emma's. "Just... just tonight, can we pretend...?"

"Pretend what?" Emma asks, blinking in confusion. Pretend to be little green men in outer space? (That was always one of Henry's favorites.) Pretend to be on a tropical beach anywhere but here? (Her own favorite during winters in Boston.) Pretend...

Regina exhales, her face twitching, and gnaws at her lower lip. "I need to – my image – I can't... I can't show weakness."

"Your image? How is it 'weak' to mourn your fiancé?"

"We have to... when tonight is over, I need you to forget that it ever happened. Can you do that?"

"I... sure. I can forget," Emma agrees after a moment's hesitation. She can do whatever Regina needs.

Although she can't imagine what, exactly, could be giving the other woman such pause.

"Good," Regina whispers. Then she curls around Emma's spare pillow, squeezing it tightly against her chest, and allows herself to sob.

Emma shakes her head. "I don't understand you," she mutters, and she scoots across the bed and wraps her arms around Regina and traces patterns on her back until Regina's breathing slows and her body sags against Emma's. Forcing her restlessness aside, Emma stays put, waiting and watching until Regina finally falls asleep. Ever so slowly, she lifts one hand to brush a lock of hair out of Regina's eyes and gently touches her cheek, still warm and sticky with tears. Regina shifts in her sleep, stretching so that her body is flush against Emma's, and Emma finally exhales, letting out the tension that's been building in her chest all evening, before drifting into an uneasy and dreamless slumber.

* * *

When Emma awakens the next morning, her blankets are rumpled and there's an indent in her mattress like someone else had been in bed with her, but Regina is nowhere in sight. She stands, stretches the knots out of her back (she must have slept in a strange position last night), and convinces herself she was dreaming.

The frown she sees on Henry's face when she enters the living room tells her differently.

"Regina was here last night," he states matter-of-factly.

"You had the same dream I did, then?"

He shakes his head, still frowning, and hands her a slip of paper. "This was on the coffee table."

_Dear Emma,  
__I'm so sorry to have trespassed on your hospitality last night. Thank you for staying with me. Please give my regards to Henry.  
__All the best,  
__Regina Mills_

"You could have woken me," he complains. "She could have said hello in person."

"She wasn't exactly feeling social last night, kid," Emma replies, running her fingers distractedly through her hair. When had Regina left? And why? Where had she gone? "She needed... quiet. And understanding."

"I could have been quiet! I could have –"

"Henry, please let it go," she says, voice pained. "Regina likes you – she likes you lots – but there are some things... some things adults need to discuss as adults."

He regards her suspiciously, chin set in defiance, until finally his face falls. "Daniel died," he whispers, "didn't he?"

There's no use in lying. "He did," she confirms softly. She braces herself for Henry's reaction, ready for tears, rage – when Neal died, he trashed the entire living room – but he just nods, cool and somber. He's grown up so much over the last year, she reflects, more than she'd ever wanted him to.

"Is...is Regina going to be okay?" he asks. His voice hitches slightly, and Emma thinks her heart might break.

"I don't know," she admits, and she pulls him into her arms, holding him there for a good, long time. His face is pressed against her shoulder, but he doesn't cry. She does: deep, gut-wrenching sobs that shake her entire body and hurt her throat. She cries for Regina the tears she'd never been able to cry for herself, and Henry, for his part, stands there and lightly rubs her back.

She wonders if she should feel guilty about this, about her ten year old son taking care of her, but she lets him do it anyway, lets him hold her and rock her back and forth until the tears are all out and she just feels empty. Reluctantly, she pulls away. Henry looks slightly shell-shocked, but he straightens his shoulders, clears his throat, and asks, "What now?"

_What now? _

Wiping her eyes, Emma checks the clock on the wall and turns back to her son. "Get dressed for school, kid," she says. "I'll walk you."

"I don't want to go to school. I want to stay home with you."

"Henry, you have to go to school" is on the tip of her tongue, but that's not what comes out. _Why should he have to go to school? _asks a needling voice in her head. _School's not going to do him any good today._

And, on a more selfish note, being alone isn't going to do _her_ any good.

"Fine," she replies. "But only for today, and I want you to read for at least thirty minutes and write something, too."

"Can I write Regina a letter?"

"I'm sure she'd appreciate it, if you wanted to."

"Can I come to your practice?"

Emma sighs. "You've got a lot of nerve, kid."

"So, that means yes?"

"We'll see," she replies. Careful to hide the small smile that creeps onto his lips, Henry leans in and hugs her again, and Emma closes her eyes and breathes in his scent of soap and cinnamon even as guilt claws away at her insides because she's not alone and Regina is, she has her son to hold onto and Regina has nobody, nobody.

She wants Regina to have _her._

She doesn't even know what she means by that.

* * *

It's not until two weeks later that they play the Chickadees again, a double-header up in Portland that has the entire bus abuzz. Word had spread, as it does (this time, through a letter from Ruby's Granny, who has apparently forgiven her after all), and by now the entire league must be aware that the Evil Queen's fiancé had been killed at Normandy. Emma was pleasantly surprised by her teammates reactions; she'd underestimated their capacity for empathy, even for a bitter rival. It was Mary Margaret who'd made a sympathy card – a beautiful singing bird fashioned from colored scrap paper – for the entire team to sign, Zelena who'd thought to send flowers.

But now that they've finished grieving for her, there's only one question on everyone's mind: will the Evil Queen be pitching today?

The "Evil Queen" is always emphasized whenever the question is asked: as they've now realized, whether Regina Mills is physically present at the game is immaterial. Regina Mills is a human woman; the Evil Queen is a persona, a larger-than-life figure who serves a common enemy, a rallying cry of sorts throughout their long training sessions. Regina Mills, at this moment, is someone to be pitied; the Evil Queen is a source of fear and awe.

The most common answer to the question, shockingly enough, is "I hope so."

Emma, in fact, knows the answer, although she and Henry have jointly decided it's none of their business to share. He had written to her almost immediately, and her reply had arrived just a few days ago. "She's not quitting the league permanently," Henry informed Emma, "but she's taking some time off to be with her family." He accepted the news with a heavy heart but claimed he understood.

In a separate note she'd enclosed, addressed specifically to Emma, Regina clarified that "taking time off to be with her family" meant that her mother was forcing her to relearn how to be a lady, to forget about baseball, and to think seriously about allowing her planned-from-birth future husband to court her, once a socially acceptable period of mourning had passed.

_I __haven't__ given up,_ she wrote. _I've written to Gold in the hope that he can exert some influence on her. You were right, of course, when you said that she shouldn't control me, but I'm at a loss for how to handle this situation. I don't want to lose my freedom, but I also don't want to lose my mother. She's all I have left, and in spite of everything she's done, I love her. I'm not strong like you._

The letter went on, discussing irrelevant day-to-day things like chicken roasting, asking after Emma's training, and had led Emma to believe that Regina didn't have enough people to talk to.

Finally, the last paragraph said: _Every day I'm in this house, I feel that I'm drawing closer and closer to madness. Without Daniel, without baseball, I've lost everything that once gave me a sense of my own identity. Without him, I'm lost._

Regina had written another sentence underneath, but it's crossed out so many times Emma can't even begin to read it. It stands in sharp contrast to the rest of the letter, pristine and written in Regina's perfect penmanship. Emma doesn't know what to make of it. Certainly, mistakes happen, and no one wants to waste paper when it's so overpriced because of the war, but there's something odd about that lone phrase at the end of a letter, so thoroughly blacked-out it may as well have been censored by the army.

Well, she supposes she'll never know.

The bus driver, always a little hard on the breaks, shouts out a warning as they careen into the parking lot, pulling Emma out of her thoughts.

"Were you daydreaming, ma?" Henry asks, head cocked to one side.

Emma sighs. "Something like that. I guess I'd better start thinking about the game, though."

"Won't be a very interesting game," he says under his breath, "without Regina."

Privately, Emma agrees, but she pats him on the shoulder and says, "You never know. Sometimes baseball can surprise you."

As it turns out, it is a pretty exciting game, at least on paper. Without the Evil Queen at the mound, the teams are well matched, trading runs back and forth and managing to engage a crowd that had started off quite subdued. The Belles win in the end, five-four, finally breaking a three-inning tie at the top of the ninth when Mary Margaret hits one out of the park. There's no celebration on the bus ride home, though, no chanting for the heroine of the hour. Mary Margaret, whom Emma fully expected to be pleased with herself, is strangely morose.

"Nice going! That was a great run you had there," David tells her.

Mary Margaret rolls her eyes. "It was gravy," she scoffs. "It's not like I hit a run off the _Evil Queen."_

David starts defend Kathryn Nolan's pitching skills, but then he seems to think better of it, instead muttering something that sounds suspiciously like "pain in the neck" and sulking for the rest of the trip.

"Hot damn," Ruby whispers, leaning across the aisle to nudge Emma's shoulder. Emma sinks lower in her seat, tossing all of her charm school lessons on posture out the window, and ignores her.


	5. East Coast Swing

**Notes**: As always, I apologize for the length of time between updates. Also, I'd like to offer a warning that the second-to-last section of this chapter does contain slightly drunken sex. Although both participants are aware and willing, I am aware of the legal definition of consent and encourage you to avoid it if you're sensitive to that sort of thing.

As always, I appreciate any feedback you want to leave here, or you can contact me on Tumblr (into-themists).

* * *

**Chapter 5: East Coast Swing**

_Dear Regina,_

_It's been a few weeks since I've heard from you, so I thought I should try to get in touch. I hope all is well up in Maine. We're having a heat-wave here in Boston: Henry's out of school for the summer and spends most days at the swimming pool while I train. I wish I could join him. (Maybe they'll decide to change to the All-American Girls Professional SWIMMING League.)_

_The team is doing well. We're about to make a week-long trip to the Midwest to play a few teams out there. I'm excited to see Chicago for the first time. Henry is, strangely enough, excited for the train ride._

_We're all wondering when we might do battle with the Evil Queen again. Everyone misses losing to you, and personally, I miss your company even more. For my own selfish reasons, I hope you've been able to reason with your mother. Baseball is much less interesting without you around._

_All the best,  
Emma Swan_

_PS: Henry won the writing contest for a local paper. I've enclosed his entry: "Secrets Behind the Mirror: The Wicked Reign of Snow White." He's over the moon, convinced Walt Disney himself is going to drop by and offer him a movie deal. My next letter may come from Los Angeles..._

* * *

"When do you think Regina will be back?" Henry asks one morning after their trip to Illinois. It was a successful campaign - they'd won all but one game - but finding no response to her letter upon their return to Boston had caused both Emma and Henry more dejection than either would have expected.

"I don't know, kid," she says, hoping he doesn't hear the worry in her voice. It's been six weeks since Regina left the league, and nearing a month since her last letter, which had ended on a fairly concerning note. She imagines Regina alone in the wilds of Maine - well, she assumes Maine is wild: she hasn't seen enough of it to know for sure - fending off the advances of some awful suitor her mother is springing on her.

_"I'm lost,"_ Regina's last letter had said, and if Emma thinks that if she had the time and money to spare, she'd go up to Maine herself and make sure Regina was found.

"Do you think she'll _ever_ be back?" Henry asks nervously.

Emma shrugs. "Kid, I just don't know," she repeats, slinging an arm over his shoulder. "If I could find out for you, I'd do it in a heartbeat. Now let's just stop worrying about it; I'm sure we'll find out some way or another."

As it turns out, the answer appears in their mailbox within another week.

* * *

_Dear Emma,_

_Thank you so much for your letter. It couldn't have come at a better time. Please tell Henry that his story made me laugh out loud for the first time in weeks. It was absolutely brilliant. _

_I've been following the Belles' results through our local paper (Ruby and Mary Margaret, as you must know, are from Storybrooke, and they've now risen to "local hero" status). It seems that you've had quite a successful run: you may even surpass the Chickadees as the top team in the East. As I'm sure you'll understand, I can't allow that to happen._

_I'm unsure whether or not I've made an progress with my mother, but I have decided it doesn't matter. I have discussed the situation with Gold and Spencer, and I plan to return to my team at the end of July, with or without her blessing. I simply miss baseball too much, and, as your letter reminded me, I need to be around friends. It's time to take control of my own fate._

_Please don't share this with anyone yet, as nothing is set in stone._

_With gratitude,_

_Regina Mills_

* * *

Emma puts down the letter and, elated as she is, she can't suppress a slight frown at the thought of keeping it a secret, especially from Henry. He's a perceptive kid: he'll notice that she's suddenly more excited than she's been in a month. And the team...

Absent any legitimate challengers, at least any of the Evil Queen's caliber, they've begun to grow complacent over the past few weeks. Emma wouldn't go so far as to say they've gotten sloppy, but there's definitely less intensity to their training sessions these days. They'd be completely unprepared for the Evil Queen's return, and as much as Emma likes Regina, she can't let her win.

In the end, she never has to put her secret-keeping abilities to the test, because the Globe runs an article the very next day, making the revelation for her.

"Ma!" Henry hollers as he bursts through the front door, the newspaper clutched against his chest. "Maaa!"

"What?" Emma demands, barely looking up from the glove she's oiling.

"Ma, _look!"_ he exclaims, shoving the paper directly in her face, and there it is on the front page:

* * *

_**Evil Queen Set to Rejoin Chickadees Roster  
**__Rupert Gold confirmed last night that the Maine Chickadees' star pitcher, Regina Mills, will return to the mound in next Saturday's game against our own Boston Belles. Mills, who took time off from baseball following her fiancé's death in the Normandy landings, was reportedly pitching stronger than ever in her most recent training session. The Chickadees' manager Albert Spencer states ..._

* * *

"Ma, you're not surprised?" he asks, perplexed, when she doesn't react.

"I knew she'd be back," Emma says, hoping the simple explanation will suffice. Henry's sensitive about conversations that he's not privy to. "She'd go crazy without baseball."

Henry shudders at the thought before turning back to the article with another loud whoop. "Just wait until everyone reads the paper! This is going to be the biggest game _ever!"_

* * *

If Emma thought the crowds were huge the first time they played the Chickadees at home, she obviously hadn't anticipated the fanfare surrounding the Evil Queen's return to baseball. She's half-worried the stadium might burst, if not from the sheer number of fans, then from their volume. "Think they brought the whole state of Maine to this game?" Emma jokes, forcing a nervous laugh.

Ruby, however, is anything but amused. "Yes," she replies, gulping.

"So much for our winning streak," mutters Zelena.

Beside her, Mary Margaret's face is the palest Emma's ever seen it, but she's trying to rally. "The Evil Queen hasn't trained for nearly two months. Don't count us out before the game even starts," she scolds, but it's obvious that her commitment to hope is halfhearted at best. Even with two months away from the game, Regina is still head and shoulders above the next best pitcher, if her form during the warm-up is any indication.

"Go Regina!" Henry cheers, his voice audible even over the din. He's sitting with the family of one of his school friends, all of whom are wearing Belles colors but holding homemade Evil Queen signs. (It's a strange sort of rivalry they have, Emma thinks with some amusement.) "Strike them all out!" Regina offers him a brief smile before firing off a fastball that makes her own teammate jump out of the way.

"Pretty loyal kid you got there," David grumbles, and Emma merely shrugs in reply. She's used to Henry's obsession; she's learned not to be bitter about it. While the extra motivation probably doesn't hurt, she's certain Regina would have easily thought of the idea on her own.

Even Zelena, whose cockiness usually grates on Emma, looks worried before she steps up to the plate to lead off. "Well, we'll see what happens," she sighs.

What happens is she's out in three pitches. As is Mary Margaret after her, and then Ruby. David buries his face in his hands as boos rise from the stands, the fan-base they'd spent the last few months building up growing quickly disillusioned as they remember the strength of their foe. That they manage to hold the Chickadees to zero runs helps a little, but the damage is done.

The next inning sees Belle out in under two minutes, and then it's Emma's turn to face the Evil Queen's chopping block. "Get a hit, Em," David begs her. "Even a foul ball - anything. You're our only hope."

She'd like to give a sarcastic retort, but her mouth seems to have gone dry. Instead, she nods at him, gives her bat a couple of practice swings, and tries to hold her head high as she strides to the plate. At the sight of the Belles' best slugger, the crowd goes quiet, a few spectators rising to their feet to get a better view. "Let's go, Ma!" Henry calls from the stands, though not nearly as enthusiastically as he'd cheered each time Regina had struck out one of her teammates. She sees Gold a few rows in front of Henry, his dark eyes inscrutable as they bore into her.

Emma gulps, trying to get some moisture back into her throat, before assuming her batting stance and a defiant expression for her own benefit as much as anyone else's. If she hadn't known that the woman staring her down from the pitcher's mound had shown up at her apartment in tears two months before, she never would have guessed it. The Evil Queen is back, and while Emma is happy for Regina's sake, she couldn't be more terrified.

The first pitch whizzes by her chest before she even has time to react, the second passes a full inch above her bat, and the third... well, to say she's nowhere near it would be an understatement. "What are you doing?" Regina mouths to her as the Belles' fans groan and the Chickadees' fans jump their feet, and Emma hangs her head on her walk back to the dugout.

"It's not your fault. She's on fire today," Ashley says sympathetically, but Emma ignores her, burying her face in her hands as she stews in her own humiliation. When Ariel strikes out only moments later, she slowly forces herself upright and into her catching gear

"Might as well make the best of it, right?" Mary Margaret asks, forcing a smile as she jogs out into the outfield, but the entire team seems shaken by two innings without a single hit. They give up two runs easily before Ashley finally starts throwing strikes again, and the rest of the game is just more of the same.

Emma does get a hit in the seventh, a pop fly that the right fielder catches effortlessly, but by then, there's no point in rallying. She can't decide whether it's a comfort or an embarrassment that Regina looks almost as disappointed as she does.

* * *

The second Emma exits the locker room after the game, Henry materializes at her side, urgently tugging her sleeve. "Ma, can I have a slumber party at Nick's house tonight? His dad says it's okay." Beside him, Nick nods, though he looks distracted, his eyes following Regina out of the Chickadees' dugout, where she's instantly swarmed by reporters.

"What? No 'good game, Ma?'" Emma grumbles, mostly joking. There's not much he can say to assuage the pain of a seven-zero loss, anyway. "A slumber party would be fine, though. I'll take you to their house after supper."

"Swell!" Henry exclaims. "Come on, Nick, I'll introduce you to the Evil Queen. Don't worry, though; she's actually really nice! You'll see - I bet she'll sign your hat."

The two boys run off before Emma can even fully process the scene, and she turns to Ruby, feigning a sigh. "Always nice when your own kid roots for the other team."

Ruby ignores the remark, mischief glinting in her eyes. "If Henry's at a slumber party tonight, you have no excuse not to come dancing with us," she says slyly. "Come on! Even Belle says she's coming, and she never does!"

Emma groans. While she's always cited Henry as her reason for avoiding team social functions, it would probably be more honest to admit that she just doesn't enjoy going out. "I'm too old to go dancing," she protests, and Ruby shakes her head in disbelief.

"You're twenty-eight!" she protests. "It's not like you're somebody's grandmother." Then, putting on a wounded expression, she adds, "It's like you don't even want to spend time with us."

"I spend time with you every day, if you hadn't noticed."

"It's not the same if we're just playing ball," Ruby tries to argue just as Mary Margaret jogs up to them, her head bobbing with excitement.

"Some of the Chickadees say they're coming out, too," she reports breathlessly. "It could be fun to get better acquainted with them."

"Do you remember how strict our chaperons are when we're on the road?" demands Emma. "Do you really think the Chickadees are going to make it out of their hotel?"

Mary Margaret shrugs. "Kathryn just said the Evil Queen would take care of it," she says simply.

_The Evil Queen?_ "Regina's coming?" Emma asks, cursing inwardly when her voice squeaks. She tells herself it's from the shock that Regina would allow herself to be seen in public, with people she claims to dislike, in a way that would certainly not befit the image she's trying to project. Privately, she knows it's because of the strange feelings swirling inside of her whenever she and Regina are in close quarters.

"I assume so," Mary Margaret replies. "She's a pretty good dancer." And Mary Margaret would know, wouldn't she? Growing up in the same town, she must have seen Regina dance at least once, and Emma's suddenly irrationally jealous. (But then, what does Mary Margaret know about this sort of dancing? For all Emma knows, she could be talking about a youth ballet class.)

Shaking her head at herself, Emma offers her teammates a small smile and says, "I'd better go see what Henry's up to. I'll try to make it tonight."

"Great, you're coming to see your rival but not us?" Ruby complains. "You'd better not be looking to start any fights."

Emma rolls her eyes as she saunters away after Henry. From time to time, she's shocked at how little her teammates seem to know her. Then again, she supposes she doesn't exactly let them.

* * *

Emma surveys the loud, smoky scene at The Red Lily and grimaces. She can barely remember the last time she'd been to a nightclub. She and Neal went dancing occasionally in their teens, but they'd preferred to get into trouble in other ways, and then Henry's arrival had changed everything - for the better, of course, if _this_ is what she was missing.

She finds Ruby by the bar right away, chatting with one of the saxophone players who's on a break. She catches Emma's eye and waves, but given how preoccupied she seems with her new friend, Emma decides to leave her alone. Anyway, she's distracted by a commotion on the dance floor. It appears that the Evil Queen made it out after all, and she's every bit as good a dancer as Mary Margaret had claimed. Emma stares, her jaw hanging open, as Regina glides across the dance floor in what seem like impossibly high heels. But for the guy in the Harvard sweater with his hands all over Regina, Emma thinks she could watch this all night.

She's not sure how long she's been looking when she hears a voice behind her ask, "Care for a drink?" She immediately whirls around, surprised to see a man there, offering her a glass filled with a clear liquid she assumes is gin.

"Hello," she replies, shouting to be heard over the din, and then she accepts the glass with a shrug. "Thanks."

"Name's Joe," he says.

"Emma."

He looks like he's about to say something else before he catches a glimpse of Neal's ring on her finger and takes a step back. "You married?" he demands.

Emma shakes her head. "I was," she answers, wondering if perhaps this was a bad idea after all. "He died two years ago."

"Oh, I'm sorry." Joe looks...sad? Relieved? She can't tell. "Was it in the war?" Emma nods, and he gives her an awkward pat on the shoulder. _I shouldn't have come_, she thinks, downing a swig of gin as she looks around the dance floor for Regina. "So, um... can widows dance?" he asks.

Emma rolls her eyes and then shrugs. "Why not?" she asks. It's not as if she can just stand around watching Regina - whom she can't even see anymore - all night, and like Ruby said, she's not someone's grandmother. She can have a little fun, can't she?

Finishing the last of her drink, she takes Joe's hand and follows him into the crowd. Neither of them are very good dancers, but she finds she enjoys herself anyway, and if she feels a strange tingle down her spine when they brush against Regina and one of her many partners, as happens from time to time, she can blame it on the heady atmosphere of the club. She takes turns dancing with Joe and a few of his friends, all of whom continue to ply her with drinks, and she's starting to feel a bit dizzy from the combination of twirling and inebriation, when someone suddenly grabs her shoulder, spinning her ten feet across the floor.

"Regina!" she exclaims, nearly toppling over and taking the other woman with her.

"May I cut in?" Regina asks, and she offers Emma's confused partner a falsely sweet smile and pulling her into a corner. "How are you?" she demands once they're alone. "You played terribly today."

"Really?" Emma scowls, rolling her eyes. "You accosted me at a club just to tell me something I already know?"

Regina looks down at the floor, her lips pressed together. "Well, no." Glancing around the club, she says, so quietly Emma has to lean in to hear, "I needed a break. A few of these men don't seem to understand how to keep their hands to themselves."

Emma grimaces. Her own dance companions have been as respectful as she could reasonably hope for with the amount of booze in their systems, but she's seen the way some guys look at Regina and isn't surprised to hear there's been some disrespect. "Are you alright?" she asks.

"Yeah, of course," Regina replies, forcing a smile. "Nothing I can't handle. I just...saw you, and thought maybe I'd take a chance to say hello. It's been a while."

"It has," Emma agrees. "This isn't really a great place for a conversation, though. You want to go somewhere quieter?" _Please say yes, _she begs silently. Now that she's stopped dancing, and mingled odors of sweat and tobacco are overpowering her, she'd like to be anywhere but here.

Regina, looking surprisingly grateful, nods her assent. "Your apartment?" she suggests.

"Um...sure, that would be fine. Do you need to tell your teammates? The chaperons -"

"Don't worry about them," Regina orders, dragging Emma out the door and hailing a taxi before she can protest. Emma simply follows along dumbly. The Evil Queen is back, and she's not sure what to make of it.

* * *

After taking much longer than usual to fumble with her keys, Emma manages to pry the door open before practically tripping into her apartment, a cackling Regina at her heels.

"You've had far too much to drink tonight," her guest remarks, kicking off her heels and flopping onto Emma's sofa in a maneuver far less refined and coordinated than one might expect from the best female ballplayer in the country.

"Me?" Emma demands, voice squeaking."You're as sauced as I am. How many shots did those Harvard boys buy you?"

Regina shrugs, her hair, tangled and damp with sweat, fanned out behind her as her head lolls back against the cushions and her cheeks flushed pink from the alcohol and the midsummer heat. "A lot," she admits, sighing. "Come sit with me until the room stops spinning." Emma forces a chuckle, although it catches in her throat as her eyes are drawn to the straining buttons of Regina's dress, and she sits gingerly on the edge of the sofa, suddenly feeling warm, too warm, her heart pounding in her chest and her legs bouncing with energy like she needs to go out and run a mile.

"What did you want to talk about?" Emma mumbles nervously. "I mean, before we left the club."

"Oh, that." Regina looks like she's about to respond, but instead she orders, "Sit closer. You're too far away."

"Anyone ever tell you that you're bossy?" Emma asks. She keeps her eyes carefully averted as she inches toward Regina, worried that another glance at those buttons will steal her powers of speech again.

Laughing aloud, Regina waves her hand to beckon Emma closer until the two of them are nearly on top of each other. "I have no idea what you're talking about," she jokes. "They call me the Evil Queen for my sweet and demure personality."

"I can see that," Emma replies, a shiver running down her spine as Regina begins absently playing with her hair. She's not sure what's wrong with her body: she's still warm from the dance hall, but there's something about Regina's touch that's taking away any control she might have had over her body, and she simultaneously feels like she's floating and like she's coming down with the flu.

"Thank you for not giving up on me," Regina suddenly whispers, and Emma must look as confused as she feels (there's something akin to radio static filling her brain) because Regina clarifies, "these past two months. I... you got me through it."

"I sent a couple letters," Emma protests, blushing. She could have done more - _should_ have done more. "You got yourself through it." Whatever there was to get through - Regina hasn't really gone into detail about how she'd managed to escape her mother's house and talk her way out of an arranged marriage - she's certain her infrequent, poorly written missives had little impact on the situation.

Regina hums in response, disentangling her fingers from Emma's curls to gently trace a pattern on her shoulder instead, much more affectionate drunk than she is sober. "I appreciated your letters," she says.

Her face burning, Emma jerks away from Regina's touch, swearing internally that she'll never touch liquor again. She wonders, briefly, if she's coming down with something; she's never felt this way before, never felt this sort of ache, this burning, in the core of her body, pulling her toward another person in the way it's now pulling her toward Regina. She remembers some of the older boys at the orphanage talking about having this sort of feeling for a girl, of their hearts pounding, their internal temperatures rising, their bodies seized by inexplicable urges they had to fight to contain, but back then, she'd always assumed it was some sort of in-joke or over-dramatization. She'd never imagined she herself could be seized in such a way.

But here she is. If this isn't being "seized," she's not sure what is.

And what's worse, she's certain she's not supposed to feel this way. Not about _anyone_, but especially not another woman. A woman who surely doesn't feel the same way, a woman who's _just _lost her fiancé...

"What's wrong?" Regina asks, her voice suddenly small and uncertain. "Did I do something -"

"No," Emma replies immediately. "It-it's not you. I...I just..."

"Emma, look at me," Regina pleads. When Emma doesn't, Regina uses her fingertips to gently touch her chin, sending a jolt through Emma's body that's both hot and chilling at the same time. Still, she allows her face to be maneuvered until her gaze meets Regina's, and she sucks in a shaky breath when she looks into the other woman's eyes, which have turned the same dark and turbulent shade she'd seen earlier on the dance floor. For an instant, she allows herself to wonder if the emotion behind Regina's gaze is the same complex mixture of desire and apprehension she's sure is reflected in her own.

"Regina, I..."

"Shh," whispers Regina. "It's okay."

Emma shakes her head, freeing herself from Regina's touch to regain at least some modicum of control over her own thoughts. "No, it's not," she disagrees. "This-this isn't...we can't do this," she finally stammers out. "It's wrong. It's-"

Regina looks confused, and Emma wants to smack herself. Of course Regina doesn't-of course she's not- "What's 'wrong?'" she demands. "What can't we do? I don't-I don't understand."

Emma lets out a sigh that's perhaps closer to a sob and shakes her head. "I don't know," she says at first, before abruptly deciding that perhaps honesty is the best policy. If anything, it will get Regina out of her house and she won't have to deal with these feelings anymore. "I just...I think I want to kiss you," she blurts out and then clenches her trembling fists in her lap, awaiting Regina's reaction.

She seems surprised, even shocked, but she's not running, and Emma isn't sure if that's a good sign. "Oh," she murmurs, teeth worrying at her lower lip as she considers. Then, without warning, she cups Emma's cheeks in her hands and pulls their faces together, planting a soft, chaste kiss on her lips. "Like that?"

"Yeah, sure," Emma says faintly, barely able to hear her own voice above the roaring in her ears. She's not sure what effect Regina had expected the kiss to have, but it's only increased the ache in her body and turned the small flame of her desire into a raging fire. When she thinks she has enough self-control to glance back at Regina, she sees the other woman's fingers hovering over her lips as she inhales sharply, realization dawning in her eyes.

Finally, Regina meets her eyes, and then she speaks again, her voice low and raspy. "Or...or maybe more like this?" she asks, and surges forward again. This kiss is anything but chaste: Regina's lips are harder, hungrier, pressing and sucking at Emma's so hard she worries they might leave a bruise, but she never wants it to stop. Regina smells like cinnamon and tastes like whiskey and Emma wants her so badly she can barely breathe. Melting into Regina's touch, she closes the last bit of painful distance between their bodies, chancing to let her hands migrate upward and cup Regina's breasts the way they've wanted to all evening.

Beneath the thin, silky fabric of her dress, Emma can feel every curve and contour of Regina's body, soft flesh and chiseled muscle, all radiating heat and drawing closer and closer to Emma like a magnet. When Regina finally pulls away, her teeth tracing over Emma's lower lip, she gives a short laugh and asks, "What are we doing?"

"I...I don't know," Emma murmurs, feeling cold and exposed where her skin and Regina's have lost contact. "Do you want to stop?"

Regina absently licks her swollen lips as she considers, her eyes drifting down to her chest, where Emma's fingers are slowly drawing away. "No," she admits, and Emma exhales, letting out a long, shaky breath she wasn't even aware she was holding in.

"This is alright?" she says softly, still doubtful. "You don't think..."

The name "Daniel" is on the tip of her tongue, but she doesn't allow herself to utter it, worried that doing so will break the spell that's fallen over them.

Regina sighs, then, like she's thinking the same thing. "I think...I think I need you to touch me," she pleads. "Emma, I...you - I need you."

Emma nods her understanding. She needs this, too, whatever _this_ is. She needs Regina - her intimacy, her touch - like she's never needed another person before.

"I...I don't know what this means," Emma falters. "I can't explain this...this feeling, but... but I need you, too." Regina swallows and nods, and Emma meets her once again in a desperate kiss, lips parting slightly as her tongue slips into Regina's mouth, cautious at first but gradually growing bolder. Her hands find their way back to Regina's breasts, groping and massaging them through the fabric.

Regina moans into Emma's mouth, her fingers tracing from Emma's jaw line down her neck and over her collarbones. For just a second, she lingers over the button on the front of Emma's dress before pulling out of the kiss. "Is this acceptable?" she breathes. "If I...you know?"

"Very," Emma replies, without giving much thought to the matter, eagerly unbuttoning Regina at the same time. When they're both stripped down to their underwear, she has a brief moment of panic. _Are we really about to do what I think we are? _she wants to ask, but the words catch in her throat when Regina starts tugging her panties off. Yes, apparently they're doing exactly that.

"This is okay?" she asks again. "This is what you wanted?"

Emma nods. "It is now." It's difficult to want something you don't know it's possible to have, but now that Regina is in front of her, giving both of them unfettered access to each other's bodies, there's nothing she wants more.

Her touches are tentative at first, all of her senses too overwhelmed to act. The sight of Regina's bare skin, smooth and tan, the smell of her perfume, the ecstasy of her touch, are overpowering, taking away Emma's powers of thought and movement. Once she recovers herself, though, she can't get enough, exploring every inch of Regina's body with her hands, her lips, her tongue, groaning at the agonizing pleasure of Regina's skin against hers, the heat growing from the friction between them as their hips grind together.

"Emma," Regina hisses as Emma's fingers slide through the wetness between her thighs, and the sound of her name causes a chill to pass over Emma's body. Shivering with pleasure, she rubs against Regina's thigh, hoping to relieve the ache that's building and building inside her, treasuring the sound of each sharp inhalation as her fingers grow more confident, searching until she finds a spot that elicits a guttural moan. "Emma," Regina whispers again, her back arching and driving her hips forward for more pressure, which Emma takes as her cue to thrust her fingers harder, faster, giving herself over to instinct and clearing every thought from her mind but those of Regina.

When Regina's body finally goes slack, Emma collapsing on top of her, she presses their foreheads together, gasping for breath, and lets her eyes flutter shut.

"Was - was that okay?" Emma stammers. Reality comes crashing back down and she starts to remember who she's with and what they're doing. "Did...did you like it? Do you want me to..."

She trails off, and Regina's eyes open again, meeting Emma's as her lips curl into a grin that's half-warm and half-wicked. "Can I try?" she asks, almost shyly, and Emma can't nod her head fast enough. Her body practically shakes with excitement as she realizes the spell hasn't broken after all. The rest of the night is a blur of pleasure and heat and _Regina_, and when it's finally over, and Emma drifts to sleep with the warmth of Regina's skin pressed on top of her, Regina's face nuzzled into the crook of her neck, she feels as thought she might just float away.

* * *

Emma wakes with the first light of dawn, sticky with sweat and confused by the pressure of someone sleeping on top of her. It takes a few moments before she's conscious enough to realize it's Regina, and the sudden rush of memories from the previous night makes her heart almost skip a beat.

She remembers the taste of booze and the smell of smoke and the sound of jazz from the dance floor. She remembers the heat of Regina's body and the scent of her perfume and what felt like magic sparkling in the air around them. She remembers Regina's hands and Regina's mouth and the softness of Regina's skin and Regina Regina Regina, and there's a part of her that wonders if it was all a vivid dream.

Then she assesses the situation and realizes that however her mind may have embellished the details, the evidence at hand indicates that last night was real. Her eyes are bleary, her head is pounding, and she and Regina are both completely naked.

The more she remembers, the faster her heart pounds, the adrenaline coursing through her veins filling her with an intoxicating mixture of exhilaration and horror.

She wants to run, somewhere far, far away from here. But, of course, she's in her apartment, and Regina - _Regina_ \- is sleeping on top of her, still blissfully unaware of the whole situation.

The situation - Emma can barely contemplate the extent of it. Certainly, Regina could be out of the league in a heartbeat. Star player or not, she'd committed at least three expellable offenses, and Emma - well, she hadn't snuck out of any hotels or evaded a chaperon, but she's guilty in every other regard. They're both done for.

Her eyes burn as the considers the prospect of returning to the munitions factory before the season's end. So much for savings. So much for buying Henry new clothes for the next school year. So much for a job she loves. Instead, she'll be back to endless hours in hot, stuffy air with dust in her throat and lungs and wages that can barely keep a roof over their heads. She can't even imagine how much worse it will be for Regina with her tyrannical mother to deal with.

Unless...could they go to prison for this?

Emma's never fainted before, but she thinks she's about to.

What happens to Henry if she gets locked away for sodomy? Would they put him in an orphanage? Would he get to visit her? Would he be ashamed? Would the other children -

"Emma?" Regina suddenly mumbles, jolting Emma from her increasingly distressing train of thought. "Where are..."

As Regina sits up and her eyes adjust to the light, tracing over both of their bodies, she seems to go through the same process of realization that Emma had moments before, and she snatches her dress off the floor.

"What happened last night?" she whispers, draping the dress over herself in a futile attempt at decorum.

"I...I've been trying to piece it together," Emma stammers. "I think -"

"It was a rhetorical question, Ms. Swan," snaps Regina.

_Ms. Swan? _When has she ever been called Ms. Swan?

"I'm sorry," Emma murmurs, tears filling her eyes. "I'm so sorry. I didn't -"

Regina rolls her eyes. "Well, don't apologize," she says impatiently. "We're both to blame for what happened. It was ill-advised, certainly, but no one is hurt. So, I think we should agree that it was enjoyable, if meaningless, and move on."

_Meaningless?_

Well, of course it was meaningless, wasn't it? It's not like they're _in love._

If it was so meaningless, then why is she crying?

"Right, move on," Emma repeats, clearing her throat and trying to regain some semblance of composure. Wordlessly, Regina hands her a handkerchief. "How...how do we do that?"

Regina pauses for a moment, painfully squeezing her eyes shut like she's making the decision on the spot, and then, sighing, she replies, "I get dressed, leave this apartment, and board the bus back to Maine. You do...you do whatever it is you need to do, and we never speak of this again."

Never speak of this again. Right. She can do that, can't she? "Sounds...acceptable," she finally manages to croak. Nodding, Regina slips back into her dress. There's a button missing, and Emma's face burns at the memory of what must have happened. "I-Regina, I'm so sorry."

"Don't," Regina hisses, fastening the buttons that are left with trembling fingers. "The sooner we forget this happened, the better. I need to return to the hotel before anyone wakes up and figures out I'm missing, and you need to get over your hangover before your son comes home."

Emma clenches her fists at her sides, counts to ten, and pretends this isn't happening - pretends she isn't simultaneously hurt, ashamed, confused, and utterly heartbroken on what should otherwise have been a nice morning. "Do you want me to walk you to the bus stop?" she offers.

"No." Emma nods and takes a deep, unsteady breath, and Regina's tone softens slightly when she adds, "No, I think...I think it would be best if we weren't seen together after this. If people put two and two...no. It's better if just one of us has to face the consequences." Before Emma can open her mouth to protest, Regina closes the distance between them, her fingertips ghosting over Emma's cheek and shocking her into silence. "Emma, don't worry," she whispers. "I won't let anything happen to you and Henry."

_But I don't want anything to happen to you, either! _Emma wants to argue. _I want to help you_. Whatever there is to handle, from the league or any other source, Regina shouldn't have to deal with it alone.

But the other woman is already moving away, slipping into her shoes and opening the front door. "Everything will be fine," she promises.

When Emma finds her voice, she desperately tries to protest, "Regina, I -" but the door clicks shut before she can finish her sentence. Sinking down to the floor, still completely naked, she thinks that maybe it's just as well, since she's not sure what she would have said anyway.

_Regina, I...am sorry?_

_Regina, I...can help? _

How? What could she say or do that wouldn't just get Regina in even more trouble? Exposing herself would put them both in it together, but it wouldn't do anything to ameliorate the situation.

_Regina, I...love you?_

Of course not. How stupid could she be? Is she really so confused and so damned lonely that she could equate a drunken error in judgment to _love?_

Evidently, she is, and she hates herself for it more and more each second as the tears she'd mostly suppressed in Regina's presence start to trickle down her cheeks, and she pulls her knees to her chest and lets them fall, allowing tremulous sobs to wrack her body until she's too exhausted to cry anymore. Then, she stands, puts her clothes on, and waits for Henry to come home.


End file.
